


Southern Values

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Forced Feminization, Implied/Referenced Incest, Kidnapping, Lots of Crying, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Pet Names, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, dear lord, these fucking tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-09-01 06:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 43,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8613025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “If four kids get gunned down in the middle of Nowheresville, Texas and nobody’s around to hear it, what sound do they make?” In the sticky summer of 2009, the Crockers and the Harleys ship out for a family-fun-enforced road trip that's meant to take them on down to Texas for touristy enjoyment. Of course, after a tragically cliche car failure, they're taken in by a couple of "weirdass rednecks," who don't quite intend to let them finish the trip.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i see your psychostriders and i raise you psychostrilondes.  
> .

**=== > BE JAKE.**

You barely heard the sound of the engine dying out over John and Jade’s bickering. The two of them hadn’t quite shut up since you’d pulled out of a gas station, the last indication of civilization the four of you had laid eyes upon, a couple hundred miles ago. You only noticed when the speedometer’s needle slowly began to drop to lower and lower multiples of ten and you could barely pull off to the side of the road before the car slowed to a steady roll and then a complete stop.

John looks out the window, then flops back down in his seat and sighs, “Great.”

Jade huffed through her mouthful of Skittles. “Let’s jump-start the engine.”

“What? Jumpstart?” you repeat, blinking, “I don’t know how, I’m afraid.”

You push on the gas a little bit before concluding that you are, indeed, stuck in the middle of nowhere with a car as good as dead.

“Maybe we could try and call someone?” Jane suggests.

“No reception,” John tells her, already messing with his phone, “You guys have any bars?”

Jade shakes her head in response. “Nothing. I’m gonna go see what’s going on with the engine,” she jumps out of the car, dirtying her green converse in the slight ditch that leads down into a vast field. She shields her eyes with her hand and squints as she tries to see how long it stretches on. Eventually, she lets her arms drop and stalks to the front of the car. It’s getting later in the evening by the minute and it has to be twice as humid as it was that very afternoon. While John is eating Twizzlers, eyebrow scrunched in concern as he cranes his neck to try and see Jade above the hood that she’s lifted to inspect the engine, effectively covering up the view the windshield allowed for. After a few moments of awkward silence, Jane says, “Why don’t you boys try to help Jade?”

John shrugs and looks at you in the rearview mirror. You sigh and unbuckle your seatbelt, stepping out of the car to help your sister.

You go to stand at her side. She’s leaning over the interworking of the car, prodding at this and that. You’re sure that you’re twice as clueless as she is, and she looks like she’s doing quantum physics. Truthfully, you’re sure that would be a breeze to her compared to this.

“..I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admits after a moment of prolonged silence.

You lean down next to her, trying to act like you have a vague idea of how the darned contraption under the hood is supposed to function. “Well, what do you suppose we do?”

She pushes up her glasses to wipe at the sweat beading on her face, shaking her head. “No clue.”

You close the hood. “How far do you suppose the next gas station is?”

“Has to be miles, Jake. I’d suggest we push it, but that’s a long way to push…”

“Guess we have to wait until someone sees us,” you glance down the road, which stretches on for what seems like acres without the slightest indication of another car or speck of human life.

Jade goes to tap on the passenger side window and indicates for John and Jane to get out, which they do. You seat yourself on the hood of the car and glance up briefly at the sun before looking back down with yet another sigh.

John crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the door. “What if someone murders us?”

“No one’s gonna murder us,” Jane assures him, though she glances around nervously and her smile falters.

“Don’t be a ‘fraidy cat, John, we’ll get out of this problem-o on our hands easy-peasy,” you tell him as well, offering him a more secure grin, one that he returns half-heartedly.

“I’m not scared, just saying,” he says, and Jade rolls her eyes.

“Serves us right for taking a backroad,” Jane mutters, “This is Cold Case material, Jake. Someone could shoot us where we stand and no one would ever know.”

“If four kids get shot in the middle of Nowheresville, Texas and nobody’s around to hear it, what sound do they make?” John jokes. Jane gives _the look._

“John, nobody’s getting shot. And if they _do_ get shot, I’m fairly positive that only you would go down before I took their ass down,” Jade nudges him with her shoulder and he gasps, offended.

“I would not die first. That is bullshit and I will not stand for it.”

“Fine, maybe Jake would get shot first. He doesn’t know how to not show off his arms.”

“I would not get shot first! If I pulled out my guns, I’d probably scare them off.”

“Please. Nobody’s scared of you. Besides, you’d probably insist on taking ten paces before the shoot-off, and they’d kill you while you’re back is turned, old man,” Jade teases and sticks her tongue out at you.

“I beg to differ, Jade!” you exclaim indignantly, “I am a skilled-,”

She cut you off by pointing a finger gun at you and making a ‘boom’ sound effect while mimicking firing it off. Jane stifles a giggle and tries to sound commanding when she says, “Both of you, knock it off.”

John interrupts before you or Jade can decidedly not knock it off with a, “Hey, guys, there’s a-,”

“Truck!” Jade exclaims, hopping up to wave her arms frantically. John catches her left one.

“What if they’re weird old rednecks?” he said to her and she just rolled her eyes.

“They won’t mess with me, John.”

You managed to flag down the dirty red truck. Jane anxiously stood next to you, wringing her shirt sleeve in her hands. You nudge her shoulder with your own and hop off the hood of your car. “Don’t be afraid, Janey, I’ll protect you from any hooligans or roughnecks that may come our way.”

She spares you a smile, but you can see the worry in her eyes. The passenger door swings open and out jumps a blonde girl in ripped jean shorts and a loose pink shirt tied up at the side. She grins at the lot of you and bangs on the side of the truck. “Dave! These poor peeps look stranded and scared!”

“We’re not scared!” you refute, but Jade kicks you swiftly in the shin and returns the smile.

“Yes, thank you. Um, is there a way we can call for help?”

The sound of the driver door slamming shut is heard and a guy in red flannel and aviators- Dave, apparently- crosses the front of the truck. He looks to be considering you a moment.

“Our engine got frazzled the fresh hell up,” you explain helpfully.

“Mind if I take a look?” Dave asks but doesn’t let you respond before he’s stepping over to inspect the car. He looked a lot more sure of himself than you and Jade did, and the two of you exchange sheepish looks. He straightens up, and shrugs indifferently, “Alright, y’all can hitch a ride with us if you want.”

“A ride to where?” Jade asks critically.

“To our place!” the blonde girl butts in, “We can get Dirk to look over your car in the morning, but it ain’t gonna be much use to let y’all sit here overnight!”

“Dirk?” Jane questions.

“Our brother. Better with this shit than we are,” the blonde girl says, still grinning. Her eyes, you noticed, were a peculiar shade of bubblegum pink. They stood out against her light hair and tan skin. You couldn’t tell about Dave, with those mirror shades shielding his eyes.

“Stay the night with us, we’ll fix y’all up in the morning and you’ll be on your way,” Dave says, opening the door to the backseat, “We can get him to tow it, too, if you’d like.”

“Are you guys sure about this?” Jane wonders aloud to all of them, giving each of them looks.

You just shrug, returning the blonde girl’s smile and holding out a hand which she exuberantly shakes.

“Well, we’re glad to take you up on the offer! Thank you! I’m Jake, this is my sister Jade-,” Jade waves as she’s acknowledged, “and my cousins, Jane and John Crocker.”

“Hi, there!” Roxy says to all of you, “Well, come along, the lot of you. We can fix y’all somethin’ for dinner if you’re starved.”

“There are only three seats,” John points out.

“You can sit on my lap,” Dave straight up deadpans to John, whose eyes widen and cheeks flush.

“Um…”  

“You can squeeze into the back, John,” Jade assures him, putting an arm around his shoulders and shooting a glare at Dave.   
  
“Don’t be an ass, Davey,” Roxy reprimands him, “Load ‘em up. Our place is just a couple miles west,” her smile widens, “You’ll be back on the road in no time.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its coming along. 
> 
> hopefully i update this on a regular basis oml

**=== > BE JADE. **

The four of you squished into the backseat with your things stored in the trunk, and John was practically sitting on Jake and Jane’s laps as you began the uncomfortable ride back to your 

They lived on a rather large farmhouse, surrounded by fields of what looks like unpicked cotton. Way, way back in the distance, through probable acres of tall grass, was another home. It looks just about as big as the one belonging to the Striders, (and Lalondes, apparently. You didn’t get the whole last name business, but you were going to ask) only it was so far you couldn’t tell if it was abandoned or not. 

The house’s immediate yard is a bit of a mess. The porch is wrap-around and has loads of lawn chairs on it. On the railing sat a lot of plants, hanging from the overhang is a lot of wind-chimes and things that look to hold Wiccan origin or something. It kinda creeps you out. There’s a small shack that the cellar door bumped up against on the right, and a barn towards the back and left which is where Dave cut the engine and Roxy got out, waving for Jake to come along and talk to Dirk with her about their car. The old tow truck is visible outside the barn and you feel yourself sigh a little breath of relief. They are serious about helping you. 

Dave led you and your family into his house, which scarcely looked like a real, lived-in home. Everything was scrubbed clean to a T and had a faint scent of cleaning supplies and artificial sweetness, like fruity air freshener. It’s a little weird, but you guess some people just liked being clean. 

Jane hung back with you, obviously less comfortable than you and most certainly less comfortable than John, who has been chatting with Dave about some bullshit you can’t care about, really. 

“You okay?” you ask your cousin, putting a hand on her shoulder. She is a lot shorter than you and a lot older than you, so it’s a tad awkward. She smiles at you and nods. 

“Oh, dear, I think I’m just being paranoid like Jake said,” she says, chuckling a little at herself, “These people do seem awfully nice.” 

“You have a right to be a little afraid,” you say, “Don’t let Jake let you think being scared is a bad thing. Heck knows that he’s never had to worry about anything in his life before, that’s why he’s so ‘fearless.’ I bet he’s a real scaredy cat when push comes to shove.” 

She blows a breath as she tries to stifle a laugh, cupping a hand over her mouth. “I wouldn’t say  _ that…” _

“But it’s true!” you insist, “I love him to bits and pieces, but he’s got this huge tough guy act that he’s alway trying to play!” 

“I think he just likes being in control,” Jane shrugs. 

“Yeah,” you relent, “Maybe so.” 

“Who likes being in control?” 

You jump a little at the voice, almost knocking Jane over. You turn in a circle, trying to locate the speaker. “Did you hear that?” you hiss at Jane, who shakes her head with wide eyes, “It sounded like a-,” 

“Ghost?” the same voice responds, amused, and when you whirl around again you are face to face with a girl with a blonde bob, a slight smirk gracing her lips. She looks most unlike her siblings. She’s wearing a skirt and a black cardigan over a purple top, not the jeans and flannel country get-up. 

The only thing you could think to say to her was, “Are you a ghost?”

She chuckles. “No, I’m afraid not, my dear.” 

Her voice is poised, rhythmic, soothing. You love it immediately. You laugh a little, anxiously, rubbing the back of your neck. 

“Right. Sorry.”

She smiles at you, then looks over your shoulder to call, “David!” 

There’s a groan, then a, “Yes, sister dearest?” 

“Has Roxy started dinner?” 

Dave shrugs, leaning back on the railing of the staircase. John is up on about the second step and only just about as tall as Dave. “Probably. You can check.” 

Rose sighs and gives Dave a look. “I mean, brother mine, what is she preparing tonight?” 

Dave blinks, then all of a sudden seems to realize some secret, sibling code. “Oh, fuck, yeah. Uh, shortcake.” 

“We’re having shortcake?” John asks excitedly. 

“Yeah, sure.”

Rose’s smirk is back and her eyes land on you. “Oh, perfect. Everything is working out fine, then.”

You and Jane cast each other looks. John starts chattering with Dave behind you again. You clear your throat, a smile splitting your face, “I’m gonna go see Jake.”

“Fair,” Rose pardons you with a wave of her hand, “Please tell Roxy to come back in and finish dinner while you’re at it, darling.” 

The way she practically purrs the ‘darling’ makes goosebumps pop up along your arms. You duck your head and step out of the foyer before she can see the blush blossoming on your cheeks. You push outside and let the screen door close behind you, the gentle ringing of the wind-chimes the only noise besides the rippling of the breeze. 

You make your way over to the shed. It’s going to be a cool night, contrary to the hot as hell afternoon you had just faced. You wonder if John’s allergies are going to start acting up again, what with all this cotton.  

You knock on the large barn door which was slightly ajar to let your presence be known, slowly creaking it open and letting yourself in. Jake is talking the ears off a man hunched over a workbench. Roxy is sitting on the hood of what looked to be a pink junker car waiting to be fixed. She sees you and waves manically. You smile and make your way over to her. Neither Jake nor the man who must be Dirk notices you. 

“They’ve been flirting for the past twenty minutes,” Roxy whispers to you when you’re in the whispering vicinity, winking at you. 

You could only take so much of overhearing Jake say how glad he was someone as skilled as Dirk wanted to help them before you butted in.

“Um, hey!” you interrupt, cutting off Jake’s spiel. The other man straightens up and turns around on his stool. 

“Hello,” he says stoically, nodding at you. You nod back. He’s got those same glasses, though these are triangular, which is arguably weirder. 

“I hope Jake hasn’t annoyed you half to death,” you say and he snorts, casting a look over at a slightly offended Jake. 

“Nah. Harley is a pleasure.” 

“I don’t think so, but to each their own,” you let a smile creep onto your face. Jake just rolls his eyes. 

“Dickens, Jade, did you just come by to blunder me?” 

“No, dummy, Rose sent for Roxy.” 

“Rose?” Dirk asks and you nod. He lets out a low whistle, mouthing something to Roxy that looks something like,  _ “yours?”  _

Roxy shakes her head behind you. 

Dirk gives you a sympathetic look as he stands, patting Jake on the shoulder. “Well, Rose ain’t gonna ask twice. We best be getting inside. I’m sure you two are hungry, anyways.” 

“I know I am!” Roxy exclaims, already starting to bounce out of the barn, “C’mon, y’all, I’m making pot roast tonight! Fresh beef, too, got it from our lovely neighbors down the way.” 

Roxy’s halfway to the door with Dirk and Jake on her heels when you turn to give the barn another quick look. Dirk clicks off the overhead light before you can be for sure, but you’re almost positive you saw something staining the trunk of that bumper car like something had leaked...  
  


You shake your head and follow after the others. You  _ are _ quite hungry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: wow im finally on top of my fic i can post this new part tomorrow!!  
> me @ me: why not just post two chapters in one night  
> me: dam..... u rite.....

**=== > BE JOHN.**

You were starting to not mind this whole car-break-down thing, hanging out with Dave was a lot of fun and the “Strilonde Manor,” as he had affectionately dubbed the place, was really cool! 

The house had more than enough rooms to comfortably fit all of you, it vaguely reminded you of a plantation minus the slaves. By the time you’d settled into your room well enough it was reaching well over nine at night, and even though you’re sure it wasn’t that late you were tired. You washed your face in the bathroom because you truly felt like ick.

  
As you changed into your pajamas, you couldn’t help but notice how empty this room felt. White sheets, white comforter, oak wood nightstand and dresser and desk with no accessories or touch-ups; you were no interior designer but the room felt bland even to you. You supposed they didn’t have any reason to touch up rooms nobody was going to stay it, but it was still foreign to you to have a house as big as this feel so un-homely and empty.

  
You pulled back your bedsheets and tried to fluff up the multiple pillows strewn at the head of the bed. There was a knock at your slightly-open door and you called out, “Come in!”

  
Dave came in with two bottles. He raised an eyebrow at you, taking in your blue bottoms that were so short that your too-big Ghostbusters shirt swallowed them and made it look like you weren’t wearing pants. You grinned sheepishly, purposely stretching to show him that you were wearing shorts. “Um, hey!”

  
“Yo,” he greets casually, holding a bottle out to you, “Here. Took it upon myself to welcome you since no one else was gonna.”

  
You shook your head politely. “No thank you, I don’t drink.”

  
His eyebrow proceeded even higher up his forehead. “C’mon, make an exception for your ol’ pal Dave.”

  
You giggle. “We’ve known each other for three hours.”

  
He offers a smile. “Three hours goes a long way. You have a cute laugh.”

  
You feel yourself blush again, feeling those same butterflies erupt in your stomach like they had earlier when you’d first met him. You held out your hand, “Fine. Just a little.”

  
He handed you the bottle. “Lightweight?”

  
“Like you can’t imagine,” you confirmed, taking a sip of the beer.

  
“Damn, lucky. Can’t imagine how much that saves you on alcohol cost.”

  
You laugh again. “Tons of cash, your plantation over here better watch out, Dave.”

  
“Hey, I believe it. Business ain’t been boomin’ ever since slavery was abolished.”

  
“You poor folk,” you say, mockingly sympathetic.

  
“It’s hard for us. We don’t normally get visitors this far out in the country. Used to be a town… not so much anymore.”

  
“What happened to it?”

  
“Burned down. Metaphorically and literally. What got destroyed was destroyed, the rest of it abandoned after.”

  
“I didn’t see any-,”

  
“Long time ago. I wasn’t alive for that,” he continued, taking a swig from his bottle.

  
“Oh, no, that’s awful,” you said, expression morphing into one of legitimate sympathy. “It must get lonely.”

  
“It does sometimes…” he drawls, cocking his head. You can tell he’s examining you even with his shades covering his eyes. It makes you stiffen a little.

  
“Don’t you have any extended family?”

  
“Nope,” he tells you, popping the p as he raises his vision back up to look at you. You take another drink so he doesn’t say anything about your bottle, which is just about full.

  
“But, hey, we’ve got you, right?” he says, sliding his bottle onto the dresser. It sounds like he should say it with a tone of lightheartedness, but he doesn’t, it sounds monotone as could be and it makes you feel uncomfortable.

  
“Haha, lucky you. Um, well, I better catch some shut eye…”

  
“Aren’t you going to finish your drink?” he asks. You shake your head and hold it out to him.

  
“Thank you, but if I drink too much before bed, I’ll never sleep,” it’s a lie and he must be able to tell because he takes it slowly and slides it beside his on the dresser. “Thank you, Dave.” You turn around to prepare your bed a little and hope he takes it as an invitation to leave.

  
He doesn’t.

  
You freeze up at the sound of him nearing you. Why hasn’t he left?

  
“Dave..?” you question softly as his arms wrap around you, tight around your waist. They felt trapping. You tried to push them down and off of you to no avail.

  
“Yes?” his face is closer to yours than you expected, and you feel his breath warm against your ear. It makes you cringe.

  
“Let go, man,” you tell him with a little nervous laugh and he hums in consideration for a moment.

  
“No thanks,” he replies and starts pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck, down further and further so he can nip at your collarbone.

  
“I said let go,” you tell him, firmer, trying to wrench his hands from around your waist. You think he eventually loosens them up to assist in this, maybe he wants a struggle, but you do manage to break away and spin around to face him. “Don’t touch me like that.”

  
He stares at you for a while, expression hardened. “Don’t tell me what to do in my own damn house. You think you can look that cute and keep it all to yourself?”

  
You feel your nose wrinkle up. “What the hell is wrong with you? Don’t you dare touch me. You can make the decision to back off, and I suggest you do.”

  
He laughs. “You’re adorable. C’mon, don’t act like you’re gonna fight back.”

  
“I am,” you tell him, determined, clenching your fists at your sides and schooling your face as to not betray how scared you were.

  
“Please. You might like it, even, you look like the kind of guy who’d take it from anyone,” He takes another step towards you. You can’t back up much more. “How about you be a good boy and get on that bed for me, John?”

  
“How about you go fuck yourself?”

  
When you don’t move and continue to glare at him, he pulls a knife on you. You stare at him with wide eyes then take a step back.

  
“Don’t make me ruin that pretty face, Johnny,” he says, voice low, head at an angle, “We’re gonna help you, but I don’t do shit for free.”

  
“I-I can pay you,” you manage, all thought of fighting back gone, feeling the backs of your thighs bump into the foot of your guest bed, “I-I’ve got money. I c-can repay any expenses…”

  
“You can take off your clothes for me, that’s what you can do.”

  
You shake your head, dropping down onto the bed. Dave takes a few steps forward, but nowhere near enough to strike.

  
“Dave. Please.”

  
“What was that?” he asks, twirling his knife between his fingers, “Too much talking, not enough stripping. You wanna lose a finger tonight, baby? Every time you mouth off, you will.”

  
“Nh-nh,” you murmur, shaking your head urgently. He stares at you expectantly, gesturing his hand in circles to tell you to hurry it up. You stare at him then hesitantly pull off your t-shirt and kick off your shorts. You sat cross-legged on the cold comforter, watching as he dropped onto the bed.

  
“Aren’t you glad your car broke down, doll?” he asks you, tipping your chin up with the knife.

  
“U-Um…” you’re fairly certain you’re shaking as you feel the metal of the knife against your skin.

  
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbles, pulling away from the knife and cupping your cheek, tracing his thumb along your cheekbone. His hands are calloused and feel scratchy against your skin. You close your eyes and inhale deeply through your nose. “Let me see those baby blues, don’t hide from me.”

  
You open your eyes, fighting back the tears that threaten to well up. “W-What do you want?”

  
“You,” he says simply, “And I want you to want nothing but me.”

  
“I-If I do this, you'll let us-,”

  
“Go?” he finishes for you, “Be a good boy for me and we’ll see.”

  
He pushes you back and you fall onto your bed almost lifelessly, head turned away. You feel lips back on your neck, trailing downwards to your chest before they’re gone and he’s asking,  
“Are you a virgin?”

  
You hesitate, bottom lip caught between your teeth, before you shake your head. You hope he doesn’t get mad about that or anything.

  
“Ever been with a guy?”

  
You shake your head again. You hear a faint, ‘nk-nkt,’ and then his weight disappears from the bed. You’re too scared to look up, so you just wait, one eye cracked open until the mattress dips again and you feel his hand tracing down your left side, pressing into the indentation of your hipbone and then dipping under the waistband of your briefs. It makes you cringe just slightly.

  
He presses a wet kiss to the side of your neck, and as his mouth travels up to play with your earlobe. You can feel him lingering over you and it gives you mad anxiety. He’s murmuring into your ear, "Don’t struggle too much. I don’t wanna have to make you bleed, but disobedient pets get what they deserve."

  
He drew back and you felt his lips on your sides, and you fist your hands into the sheets to keep from disobeying and your eyes shut tight to keep the hot tears that you can feel coming from at bay. He’s pulling off your underwear and you make no sound but a little squeak in complaint, which he hardly hears.

  
Dave surges in and grabs a hold of your hips, causing you to jerk up a little. You open your eyes to look at him and broke what protection you had because you feel the tears building up and spilling. Dave seems to relish in them, sadistically enough.

  
“That’s right. Let me see your tears, baby, it’s okay…”

  
You look away from him, ashamed, and sniffle. He smooths his hands up your torso, then you felt the cool metal pressing at your calf and it makes you tense up. But he doesn’t press down, he tilts the blade so the flat of the knife is running against skin and he runs it along your leg, to your upper thigh where he lets it dig into your skin, and you cringe when you feel him cut something into the crook of your leg, writing something into your skin with the tip of the knife.

  
When he’s done he tosses it aside on the bed carelessly and the blood on it stains the white sheets. His palms run over your other thigh, and he leans down to lick at the beading drops of blood that you could feel rolling down your leg.

  
After a moment, Dave sits back onto his haunches and looks up at you. You’re trying your best not to shake but the room is cold and you’re scared and when he runs his hands over your forearms they leave goosebumps in their wake.

  
Then his lips are on yours again, his tongue pushing into his mouth and his teeth nipping your bottom lip. You bite his tongue when his hands are on your wrists, drawing your hands up to hold them above your head. He pulls away, keeping your arms in place with one of his hands.

  
"You’re so perfect,” he tells you and you swallow. He tilts up your chin a little, “And I trust your integrity, baby, but these teeth…”

  
You blink at him, eyes wide, “P-Please don’t, y-you can trust me, I’m sorry…” and you bit down harder on your lip, trying not to imagine the pain of having all your teeth ripped out by this psycho. It also scares you in the sense of not knowing when Dave plans on letting you leave, if ever.

  
"I won’t do it if you behave, sugar,” he assures you in a tone that sounds like one he’d talk to a child in, “You just let me take care of this right now…” he trails off as you feel his fingers, cold and slick, right where you would rather them not be. He pushes one into you and it’s some weird shit. It’s not painful or super uncomfortable it’s just… weird.

  
After a while and another finger, you feel yourself getting hard. And you don’t want to. You’re still reluctant to give in and while you’re not sure if this is a sign you like this or a sign that natural biology is running its course, he seems to take this as the former. He doesn’t touch your erection at all, though, instead of pushing another finger inside of you that forces a whine from your lips. You can practically feel his grin as if it’s an aura, so he obviously takes it as encouragement.

  
"What a pretty pup, don’t stay quiet. I don’t wanna have to break my new pet just yet, but I will if it gets you to cry for me…”

  
You shudder at being talked to like you was a toy, a possession that could get worn out and lose its value. There are tear tracks drying on your cheeks that itch and your eyes feel hot, you felt like you were seconds away from bawling like a bitch again. You let yourself make an audible noise as his fingers prod at something in you.

  
“There’s a good boy,” he says quiet, running his thumb over your lower lip, pulling it down. You do you best not to look him directly in the eyes. “Tell me you want it.”

  
You shake your head wildly, eyes flitting to the side of his forehead, above his right ear. He gets this tick in his half-smile and his fingers press up against something inside you that makes you yelp. He doesn’t pull away, he keeps them there, unmoving, and it makes you start to shake a little.

  
“What was that, baby? You want daddy to fuck you senseless?” he rubs against it again, causing your legs to tense and thighs to tremble. “I want an answer.”

  
“Y-Yes,” you say, unsteadily, just wanting him to do what he’s going to do and not hurt you.

  
Another jab to your prostate draws another high moan and you’re sure your face is red. This is humiliating. "Yes, what?”

  
You look at him, bewildered. “U-Um… D-Daddy?”

  
“Good boy.”

  
Then his fingers are gone and you force yourself not to care that they are. He wipes them on the bedsheets and lifts your thighs up rather easily. He rested them on his waist first, and then one at a time, lifted them to his shoulders, leaning forward and practically bending you in half. Dave lined himself up and your shaky hands tightened on the sheets.

Dave pushes in and you feel your eyes burn at the humiliation of this powerless situation. The tears start again, but you knew Dave pretty much got off on your damn suffering, so he just let you sob while he rolled his hips into you.

  
"I know it hurts now, baby, but you’ll learn to love this like a good pet ought to.”

  
Dave kisses you, and all you can do to make it less terrible is pretend this is someone else. This is happening differently.

  
Dave picks up speed and it hurts you everywhere. Your thighs aren’t used to being pressed so close to your chest, your hole still isn’t used to the intrusion, you are wheezing with straining breath and you fear to have an asthma attack… The creak of the bed is hard on your ears and you can’t even close your eyes. You try to stop your face from contorting in pain. You aren’t weak, you aren’t going to cave, and you are nobody’s pet.

  
He is mumbling under his breath, but you can’t hear him through your hiccupy sobs and the smack of the headboard against the wall, the squeaking disapproval of the mattress springs. Your erection is gone. Nothing feels good. He seems to be purposefully missing that spot he had just seemed to find with ease moments ago. You only make soft noises in the back of your throat as he fucks you like a ragdoll. You don’t try to stop him, why the hell aren’t you fighting back? He is so rough it starts irritating the cuts on your inner thigh, and you feel them bleeding again.

  
When he comes you feel disgusting. He didn’t use a condom so all of that is just inside of you and you have to feel it drip out. You close your eyes, finally. You are still crying, shaking, and you feel cold. He presses a kiss to your lips that felt as cold as the rest of you, and wipe up his own come, still spilling out of you slowly, with two fingers that are promptly jabbed against your lips. You don’t have any more drive to fight anymore, you just take them between your lips and suck them clean.

  
When he pulls them out, he says, “Good pet,” and it makes you feel fuzzy for some reason.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hola amigos i have returned   
> i wanna try and upload this weekly but uh. no promises.

**=== > BE JANE.**

  
You are now Jane Crocker and you’re anxious about your little brother. He still hasn’t returned from upstairs. You suppose he’s probably just unpacking, and you want to check on him, but you’re much too afraid of looking rude to Roxy. When Jade came back with the rest of your host family, Roxy asked if you would like to help her make dinner tugged you off before you could answer.

  
It’s a little late for dinner. It’s just ticking past eight o’clock, and you know it probably isn’t helping your diet to be eating this late at night, but you aren’t about to be rude to your kind hosts. Roxy’s kind of a mess in the kitchen, leaving things around on the counter all willy-nilly and you think you’re doing more work cleaning up after her than actually cooking but you can’t get mad. The kitchen feels a little quaint, and to be blunt, bland, but she keeps it lively with conversation. She’s got a quick tongue on her, always jumping from subject to subject, something before you can even intervene and say anything. But you don’t mind. You’re welcome to her exuberance.

  
“Dang, you’re quiet as a mouse, ain’t you?” she asks you as you load messy dishes into their dishwasher. You just smile and nod, feeling a blush come to your cheeks though she’s said jack-all to you. You didn’t know why people were always inclined to point out your shyness, or why you got so embarrassed about it, but Roxy just shrugged.

  
“Well, hey, gives me more room to run my big mouth,” she says and you laugh, shaking your head.

  
“Gosh, you’re a goober,” you tell her and she grins fondly.

  
“That’s me. Roxy Lalonde, big ol’ goober.”

  
You continue to giggle despite yourself. “Thank you for doing all this for us, Roxy. I really appreciate it.”

  
“What were we gonna do? Leave you out there all night?” She asks, grabbing plates from beige cupboards to set the table with, “We may be loners, but we ain’t assholes.”

  
“Well, but you could’ve,” you say, pushing back in the cart of the washing machine and clicking it closed. You start it up, jabbing at a few buttons before you can hear the low grumbling of cleanliness. “But then I guess your neighbors would’ve gotten us.”

  
A fork clinks to the ground over by the dining room table. You step over to grab it and hand it to Roxy. She looks a little off-put, though you haven’t the faintest why. She’s gone a little white in the face, too, like she’s lost just a cup of blood upstairs.

  
“Ah, well, our neighbors are the biggest cunts alive. Don’t think they would’ve picked y’all up anyhow,” She takes the fork from you and a smile stretches her face again, “Do you think your cute kid brother will wanna eat? I’m pretty sure he’s passed out.”

  
You let out a sigh of relief, almost involuntarily. Of course he’d be asleep. You can’t believe that possibility slipped your mind. “I’ll fix him breakfast in the morning,” you tell her with a wave of your hand, “I mean, um, if that’s alright with you?”

  
“Sure! _Mi casa es tu casa,_ Janey! Dirk said that’s Spanish for my shit is your shit. Or something to that effect.”

  
You giggle again and it brings more color to Roxy’s paled face. “I don’t think that’s a direct translation.”

  
“Hey, it’s the thought that counts,” she says, pointing the fork at you. “You wanna holler for dinner?”

  
You blank and stare at her. She just rolls her eyes good-naturedly and screams out, “Dinner!” at the top of her lungs. And, boy, did that girl have some lungs on her. It was loud enough to deafen.

  
There’s no clamoring from upstairs, so you figure John must be asleep. Roxy hip-check with and points to a chair that you immediately take a seat in as Dirk swings through the doorway with Jade on his tail. He sits at the head of the table and Jade sits across from you. Roxy gives her an excited little wave, then turns to Dirk, “Where’s Rosey?”

  
“And Jake,” he finishes for her, “She’s showing him his room. Insisted on that shit. Guess she wanted a chance to correct his grammar or cringe-worthy vocabulary.”

  
“I think his vocabulary is cool!”

  
“You think something’s cool about everyone who comes through, Roxy,” he says with a snort and Roxy sticks her tongue out at him, but before she can mouth off the oven beeps and she jumps a little, spinning on her heel to bring the pot out to the kitchen table.

  
In her absence, you look over at her older brother, Dirk, who is wearing the funniest glasses you think you’ve ever seen. Though you’re not quite ready to poke fun at such gracious people, you’re positive you would kid with him if he was more familiar with you.

  
“I was just telling Roxy,” you say and it takes him a moment to realize you’re speaking to him, “I was just telling her how thankful we all are to have you guys treat us so well.”

  
“Well is a subjective term,” says a cool voice. Rose is back, and Jade looks away from her. Either Rose doesn’t notice or she does and is being spiteful, because she seats herself right next to your cousin, “But I am glad you think so highly of our hospitality.”

  
“She was talkin’ to me, y’know,” Dirk says.

  
“Oh, I know,” Rose replies and flashes him a smile, “And before you ask, your little pal should be-,”

  
“Jumping jellybeans, did I just about miss dinner?” Jake cuts in, sitting himself next to you and near Dirk at the head of the table, “well, sweet sauerkraut, take my apologies! I was just trying to get settled in and all that goodish good. Where’s John?”

  
“He’s probably drifted off,” you tell Jake and he laughs.

  
“Just like the little bugger, isn’t it? Gosh, he’s practically got the routine of an elementary kid.”

  
“I think it’s nice he’s rounded like that,” Rose comments off-handedly and Jade nods in agreement.

  
“Yeah! I mean, he’s not really a baby, he’s just got a handle on life,” she says and Rose gives her a small smile of approval.

  
“Incoming!” Roxy trills, sliding the pot roast onto the table, “Here we are, ma’ams and gentlema’ams.”

  
Rose rolls her eyes and is the first to make her plate. Roxy taps you on the shoulder. “You wanna help me get all the good stuff? I’ve got rolls that need a’buttering.”

  
You glance back at Jake and Jade, who are eating or talking or both (gross that last one, may you add) before standing to help Roxy with the rest of dinner. You don’t plan on eating too much, or at least you didn’t, but gosh, the rolls look tempting.

  
“Golly, I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to save room for dessert,” you say with a laugh.

  
Roxy returns it, scooping out mashed potatoes into a pretty serving-type bowl. It looks almost homemade, what with the cracks in the pink ceramics. There’s a pan of bread setting on the stove. It’s hot and when you butter it it kinda melts right away. Which is the best kind of miracle, really.

  
“We don’t get many visitors,” she tells you sprinkling salt and pepper on the mashed potatoes, “And none of my siblings usually help me with dinner. So thanks for it,” she swirls her finger in the mashes potatoes and holds it out to you, “Taste test.”

  
You instinctively lick it off her finger and consider it a moment. “More pepper.”

  
She nods like your word is gospel and adds more pepper, glossing over the imprint of her finger with the spoon. “I’ll show you your room after dinner. And we can stay up late and watch girly movies. Can I do your nails? Rose never lets me do her nails. Dirk’ll let me do his, but it’s not the same ‘cause he’s my brother, y’know?”

  
You don’t know. John had always been your dress-up doll. You wished he still let you doll him up. Practicing your makeup on him was what got you to be so good about it all. But you just laughed along with it and say, “Oh, believe me, I do. And I am so totally on for a slumber party.”

  
She squeals, almost dropping the bowl of mashed potatoes before catching herself and grinning sheepishly. “I should probably bring this out. You keep working on the rolls, missy.”

  
“Aye, aye, captain,” you tell her and she walks back out into the dining room. Really, you don’t know why you were creeped out about this place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's my personal blog.](http://luciferslittlekitten.tumblr.com/)   
>  [here's my writing blog.](http://gods--among--us.tumblr.com/)   
> 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry this took so long to update!!! oml i've been hecka busy lately and also im shitty abt procrastinating

**=== > BE JAKE. **

That woman is sitting right near you and good gracious if she isn’t scaring the bajesus outta you! She’s got dark makeup and dark clothes and a voice that would most definitely sing soprano middle. She’s graceful in a way that reminds you of Morticia Adams. Not even the delicious pot roast and mashed potatoes can distract you from her gaze that sweeps over the table, mainly landing on Jade but sometimes brushing you. 

It’s more offsetting to know she’s still in her teens. Gosh, she looks so mature! Jade is tall and her biceps are no joke, but she still looks like a teenage girl at the very least. Rose Strider, Lalonde, whatever the fudge, is frankly a creepy woman. 

When you had followed Jade and Roxy, who were deep in very girly conversation, inside from the barn you were immediately met with the cold gaze of a lady who stood out like a black sheep in the lightly-colored home. You grinned at her slightly nervously because ladies who looked like they could snap your neck never really failed to intimidate and attract you. Her lips didn’t so much as twitch. She beckoned you over with two fingers.

You looked over at Dirk, your newfound ally in this strange place, who shrugged. You thought he might have a little more care for the guy who’d been delightfully making conversation with him for the past half hour, but you supposed he didn’t have a reason to worry about you talking to his sister. 

You took three hesitant steps over to her, stopping in front of her so there were a good few feet between you. She raised an eyebrow and you slinked forward just that much more. The eyebrow dropped into its proper place and she spoke.

“Would you and your sister like to see your rooms?”  

You felt a sigh of relief fall from your lips. You glanced at Jade, who was still chatting with Roxy. 

“I can show Jade hers later,” she said as soon as you’d turned your head, cold fingers latching onto your chin and angling your head back towards her. You stared down, cross-eyed, at the black fingernails digging into your skin until she let go and you blinked a couple of times. “I’d hate to interrupt a conversation.”

You trained your eyes back on her and nodded hesitantly, finding your throat a tad too dry to speak. She smiled slightly. “Wonderful. Come along.” 

You followed her like a lost puppy down a dim hall. The hall seemed to stretch on for ages and ages and you were hit with how big this house was. It was a plantation home, after all. You supposed it was just about as big as yours, maybe smaller, definitely less modern. And, boy howdy, you bet Jane would get a kick out of decorating the interior of this place. You think back to all the times she’s marathoned House Hunters while neglecting to decorate her own room with anything besides posters. Though, you suppose, you’re not innocent of that crime either.

Speaking of posters, or more rather pictures on a wall, there were quite a few framed photos along the hall. Obviously of the Strider-Lalondes, younger and some with folks who had to be their parents. A select few pictured a ginger boy and non-Lalonde blonde. You bet Jade could go on and on and on about these photos, feeding you story after story of what could’ve happened before the snapping of it. You thought they held a certain retro charm, something you could appreciate, but their “stories” didn’t enthrall you quite so much as they might your sister. 

You must’ve been too slow for Rose’s liking, what with all your inspecting shiz because she stopped and watched your eyes travel from portrait to portrait. 

“You like photography?” she asked, following your gaze to a photo of the four of them. Dirk was smiling, you noted with a faint grin, and he still had those ridiculous spectacles. 

“Some,” you answered, half-lying, stepping closer to the frame, “There’s a lot of the buggers.” 

“Dave holds an interest in photography. Before that, our mother did,” she told you smoothly, “We’ve got more in albums.” 

“My gran is like that, too. Always with the pictures,” you told her, a laugh in your voice, “Though we’ve got a heckuva lot more family to photograph, it seems!” 

She smiled, a breath akin to a laugh escaping her. You took a few steps to your left, fingers grazing the black frame of a family portrait.  The man and women present… “Your parents?”

“Indeed.” 

You squinted a little. “They’re handsome folks. What happened to them, if you don’t mind?” 

Rose didn’t say anything. She just stared at the picture a little ways away from you and then shook her head. “Nothing. Come along, Jake.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” you complied cheerily, following her in her footsteps and focusing more on the swoosh of her skirt and not the photos. 

She stopped abruptly at a door at the end of the hall that felt like it had gone on forever. She turned the knob before pushing it open and you saw a puff of dust fall from the top of the door. She held the door for you and gestured you in with a sweep of her arm, so you stepped in. 

It was a tidy enough room, you saw as she flicked the lights on, if not dusty as a paralyzed swimmer’s trophy shelf. There was a queen bed and not much else. A nightstand, dresser, and a door that was either a bathroom or a closet. Probably a closet. It looked even emptier than it was because of how big it was. You gave the room a critical once-over. It would do for a night or so. 

“You could do to get a maid through here. Me and Jade have one, she’s fabulous. And from Bolivia. Fascinating country, really, I’ve always wanted to voyage down south,” the floorboards creaked as you crossed the room, mindlessly adjusting a green and pink vase on the vanity. 

Rose quietly closed the door and took a few steps in after you. “I hope you don’t mind this is my room.” 

“What? Oh, golly frickin’ hell, am I intruding?” 

“No. Old room, I should specify. I just hope you do not mind that,” she smiled faintly, walking towards a window behind the bed. “Roxy used to sneak out through here.” 

She tapped on the glass. You wondered for a moment where that dame would even be sneaking out to in the first place, but through the white blinds, you could see the lights of that other farmhouse across the field on. You supposed that must be the place because no self-respecting teenage girl would really ever want to dawdle in a cotton field at midnight. At least, no self-respecting teenage girl you knew. 

“I take it she’s matured.” 

Rose snorted, shaking her head as she continued to stare out the blinds. “Roxy hasn’t matured a day. She’s just as reckless and foolish as she was five, six, seven years ago.”

You shrugged, sitting on the bed. “Well, sometimes maturity doesn’t come in cahoots with sensibility.” 

“Very often it does.” 

“But, scarcely, it doesn’t.” 

Rose looked at you, shutting the blinds. “Perhaps,” she relented, angling her head slightly, “You’re not unwise.” 

“That’s because I’m part of the scarce.” 

She hmphed softly, nearing you so that you scooted back on the bed to face her without breaking your neck. 

“Naivety doesn’t always escape sensibility, Jake,” she told you gently, smile turning predatory, almost as if letting you in on some big secret. Then she spun on her heel and walked out without a second word.

You watched her go. 

You hadn’t been scared of her until you started thinking about her words. All of them. That’s when you started to get goose-bumpy. It was a threatless threat, something intimidating but not aggressive. It was wild. 

You were sitting at the table, Dirk’s conversation all the company you were after. He wasn’t the best mate to chat with, but dammit, you were going to make a friend of him yet.

“Do you suppose I should get Dave?” Rose asks after a prim silence. There’s a general neutral murmur about the table.

“He’s probably with John,” Dirk tells her, shrugging and taking a sip of the beer you were sharing because  _ someone,  _ he had said begrudgingly, _ took all that shit again. _

Rose hums. “Of course he is. Cute kid, that one. How old is John?” 

“Old enough to be too cool for road trips,” Jane mutters, “you should’ve heard him complain, my, was it something.” 

“Everything we did wasn’t cool enough! Like me and Jane don’t know how to be cool,” you scoff. Dirk snorts a laugh, covering his mouth with his hand to prevent mashed potatoes from projectile shooting across the table. 

“I think you two are cool,” Roxy assures you. 

“I don’t,” Jade says, “You two act like you’re a million years old.” 

“We do not!” you and Jane both exclaim. 

“Just like Granny and Gramps,” Jade continues, “And you two are barely twenty.”

“Do we need to argue about the elements of coolty of your relatives, Jade?” Rose asks. Jade nods like it’s the only task on her mind.

“You guys can’t even imagine how lame it is.” 

“We’re not talking about this anymore, Jade,” you tell her sternly and she rolls her eyes, mouthing ‘whatever.’ 

“Don’t get defensive, Jake,” Dirk tells you with a laugh threatening to break his voice, “you’re only slightly lame.”

You point your fork at Dirk, still glaring at Jade. “See, missy? Slightly lame! That’s the end of the sidewalk!” 

“You’ve fallen off the sidewalk of lame,” Jade says, “At least Jane embraces the lameness.” 

“I’m not lame!” Jane exclaims. 

Jade sighed. “I misspoke.” 

“I happen to think you’re all varying degrees of unlame,” Rose says as if it will tie up this petty argument. Which it most likely will not. “Now, how about we speak on more important manners?”

“Like?” Roxy prompts, sitting up in her seat a little to lean over the table, “You got something better to chat about than coolness?” 

“Their car.” 

Roxy sits back. “Oh.”

“It’s almost done,” Dirk says, then pauses, then adds, “Well, okay, that’s bullshit. But it will be done soon if I can start working on it tomorrow morning.”

“Where are y’all going anyways?” Roxy asks, bouncing up in her seat, “What’s the whole family road trip about?”

“Exploring this here America!” you exclaim, eyes alight. Of course, you weren’t American, but to be  _ technically  _ speaking, the Americas were British once upon a dream… 

“Jake’s daydreaming back to when this place was all colonial,” Jade explains with a wave of her hand and then added in a louder voice, “You lost the war, grandpa!”

“Oh, shut your jealous trap, Jadey, at least we discovered the hogswalloping place.”

“Think it was actually the Scandinavians who did that,” Rose says, her lips upturned, “Does Newfoundland ring a bell?”

“That was Canada,” you huff. 

“Still the Americas,” Dirk murmurs on your left and you swat at him. 

“Pick up a textbook, old man,” Jade sticks her tongue out at you. Jane giggles behind her hand. 

“I’m done with this pesky discrimination,” you announce, standing, “I’m going to fetch John and we’re going to watch a movie.” 

“We don’t have cable,” Rose tells you and you override her sentence with, “I have a couple of choice movies downloaded.”

“John’s probably asleep, Jake,” Dirk says coolly, voice almost a little too slow as if he’s speaking to a child. 

“I’ll just wake him, then.” 

“Oh, Jake, just let him sleep!” Jane tells you with a sign. Jade nods in agreement. 

“He can sleep on the darned voyage to Austin tomorrow.” 

Roxy blinks a couple times, then a laugh bubbles from her throat almost nervously, like she’s just been embarrassed publically, “Uh, not healthy. Growing boys need good rest.”

“John’s not growing anymore. At least I don’t think the lad is,” you set your fork on your plate, cross it over your knife, “Now, if the lot of you will excuse me.” 

Dirk grabs ahold of your wrist almost painfully as you try to step away. The table, which was previously buzzing with murmurs, goes silent and Jane’s fork tapping the ceramic of her plate is the only notable sound.

“I’ll watch a movie with you, Jake,” he says, voice low, not looking up from his plate, “Let John sleep.” 

Roxy’s got her eyes downcast, fingers tapping on the table. Rose is eating like nothing has happened at all, taking petite bites of her meal. Jane and Jade are the only two looking at you, moreso Dirk’s fingers digging into your skin. You clear your throat and pull your arm from Dirk’s hold. 

“Oh, goody. Alrighty, then, folks, we’ve solved one problemo.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gee golly. i'm finally updating.

**=== > BE JADE. **

Dinner ends abruptly after the incident with Jake and his movies. Jane and Roxy retreat to the kitchen to do dishes, Jake and Dirk are gone, presumably off to watch movies, and you’re wiping up the kitchen table as per Jane’s request.

Rose is watching you, leaning on the arched entryway of the living room, dragging a dark, painted fingernail across her bottom lip almost inquisitively and it is horribly distracting. You school yourself and finish the work, tossing the dishrag over the bar to Roxy. She thanks you and you smile, but you focus on her and Jane working through the bar in the kitchen rather than turn about around to face Rose.

Eventually, you do, and you hesitantly walk up to her. Your smile remains and your heart begins to pound a little faster. Rose really does intimidate you, though you can’t place why. Her hand falls to her side.

“I take it you want to be showed to a room?”

You nod. “Yes, please and thank you!”

She waves you on with a gentle swish of her hand, leading you upstairs.

“Déjà vu?” you ask her playfully as you trail behind her, “I take it Jake complained about this place.”

“Only slightly.”

“Bleh. He’s a spoiled brat. Really, you shouldn’t listen to him.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” she tells up as she pushes up off the railing on the last step, holding a hand to you. You stare at it for a few moments too long and she retracts it with a roll of her eyes. You cringe a little at yourself as she turns around, hurrying up the stairs after her to catch up.

“So, your house is pretty old, huh?”

“It’s been in our family for centuries, almost. My father’s family, at least. My mother’s family married into the Strider family only a couple of decades ago.”

“So… Lalonde is your mother’s maiden name?”

She nods. “I decided to keep it. It propels a classier being, don’t you think? Besides, I don’t quite see myself as a Strider.”

You shrug. “Yeah, I guess I get it. Kind of. I don’t know.”

She ceases speaking to you after your small blunder in agreeing with her and opens a door towards the end of the hall, with a bit window adjourning the dead end. A dead potted plant sat on the windowsill and it hurt you right in your soul. You half-wanted to ask if you could water the thing, but Rose coughed to draw your attention back to her before you could vocalize your thoughts.

“Stay right out here,” she tells you, “I’m going to make your bed and things. You won’t want to see me cleaning.”

“I won’t?” you ask, furrowing your brow, but she’s already shut the door in your face. “I guess I won’t,” you tell the oak-wood door and blink at it before turning to glance at a couple of paintings while you wait.

You drag your fingernails along the wallpaper as you inspect the multitude of photos and paintings along the wall, thumping your knuckles on the other doors. You’re busying yourself running your eyes along the sketchy lines of a flower painting when you rap your knuckles against a door and it creaks open. You perk up, finding it to be quite the interesting feat in a devoid-of-life hallway, and push it open a little more.

There's a squeak and a shuffle inside the room. You feel along the wall for a light switch, and when you find it easily, you barely hesitate before flicking it on. You half-expect an empty room, half-expect some gritty torture chamber or portal to another dimension, but all you get is John swaddling himself up in his bedsheets, hair a mess, staring at you with wide eyes.

“Jade?” he croaks, blinking a couple of times.

“John,” you sigh, shaking your head with a faint laugh, “You missed dinner! And it was so good.”

He lets the blankets fall past his bare-chest and glances past you wearily. You look behind yourself, too, and step closer as a result of how anxious he looks.

“We have to leave,” he whispers, paranoia creeping into his voice as he keeps his eyes locked squarely on the doorway behind you, “We have to go, Jade. D-Dave… He… And I… He _hurt_ me and we have to go _we have to go, Jade, I can’t stay here he’s going to do it again-,”_

“John,” you hiss at him, feeling as though he were on the verge of a panic attack. You hadn’t seen him have one since he was ten years old at Nana’s funeral. His breathing is much too fast and heavy and you put your hands on his shoulders. His skin is burning beneath your fingertips and you wonder if he’s running a fever.

“Please believe me,” he says softly, voice bordering on a whimper, “Please, please, please, Jade, we have to go.”

“Dirk isn’t done with the car, silly,” you tell him gently, lifting a hand to feel his forehead with the back of it, “Oh, gosh, John, you _must_ have a fever…”

“No!” he exclaims, then his eyes widen and he lowers his voice considerably, “No, no, no, I’m fine. Jade, we have to go right now, Dave… he... “

“What did he do, John?”

He’s shivering as though he’s cold, oddly enough. “Things.”

“Things?”

“Bad things. To me.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. You take in his half-clothed, trembling and messy form and the musky smell of the room. You let your hand fall from his shoulder and slap it over your mouth, straighten yourself up, feeling sick to your stomach. That Dave bastard wouldn't really dare to…

Would he?

John immediately clutches the sheets again and pulls them back up. “Bad things,” he repeats himself, quieter. You know better than to finish for him. You don’t even need him to finish. You understand, though you wish you didn’t, you understand.

“John, stop,” you command him, voice as sweet as you could make it with how furious you felt, “Stop it, John. Don’t worry. We’re leaving.”

“We are?” asks a voice from behind you and you whip around. Dave’s there, leaning in the doorway, holding a thermometer, “I’m thinkin’ Johnny’s running a fever.”

“He is,” you snap, “Let me take care of him.”

He wolf-whistles, “Protective, are you?”

Before you can retort he tosses the thermometer at you and you catch it with one hand. You can tell through the glint of his sunglasses and his quiet scoff that he’s impressed, and without another look, you turn back to John to run it behind his ear, across his forehead, and lo and behold, he is running a very high fever. You can still feel Dave’s presence behind you and you want to ask him to fuck off, but you only turn around, smile politely, and ask sweetly, “Can you go?”

“Hey, sugartits, I’m just here to help out.”

You refrain from growling. “Do _not_ call me sugartits.”

“Dave,” John says softly from the bed, successfully intervening in the argument, “Please.”

“Please what, doll?” he asks and the pet name sickens you. You feel the strong urge to break his nose.

You clench your fist at your side and plaster an even bigger, faker smile on face, bordering on tiers of your ex-girlfriend’s grin. “Don’t call him 'doll.' I want to take care of my cousin myself, is that too much to ask?”

You weigh your options as Dave looks back to you. On one hand, his family is very courteously assisting your in your predicament. On the other hand, he has just assaulted your brother. You have no qualms about punching a rapist in the face, and you almost do it, but then you realize you’re in the middle of nowhere. With no cell reception. With the only company being that of your family and a couple of weird rednecks who, for all you know, might see this as a non-issue and you as the aggressor instead of the avenger.

“Sure it ain’t, but me and John have been getting pretty cozy, thought he might want some help from his new best friend.”

“Cozy?” you grit out.

The corner of his lips turns up in a smug ghost of a smile. You blink at him.

He knows you know.

You jump when footsteps start on the flooring of the room, footsteps you hadn’t heard in the hall at all. “I do hope you weren’t bothering Jade, Dave.”

Rose is standing with her arms over her chest, eyes trained on the back of Dave’s head. He grimaces and seems to avoid turning around to face her, “She was the one snooping, Rosey.”

“Was she now?” Rose asks and you rub at your shoulder, feeling goosebumps pop up on your skin. Something irks you that Rose isn’t quite human, with the way her very gaze chills you. You doubt it’s only because she’s pretty. Which she is. But which is beside the point.

“I was just helping John get over a fever,” Dave seats himself on the foot of the bed and John gathers up the blankets, fingernails digging into the cotton duvet as he breathes much-too-heavily.

“The poor thing’s got a fever?” Rose asks, obviously trying to sound sympathetic, but only succeeding in sounding mockingly sarcastic, “Dear, that’s no good.”

“Yeah. His sister or whatever’s getting defensive, I was just trying to-,”

You don’t care to listen to any more lying. “Do you have your inhaler?” you ask John quietly under Rose and Dave’s conversation. He nods, still looking at Dave, quivering like he must be freezing.

You kneel beside the bed and cup his face in your hands. He’s still shaking. You pull him close and give him a big bear hug, trying to not think about the fact you register him crying into the shoulder of your sweater. You whisper into his ear, much quieter than the brewing sibling argument, “I’ll get you out."

His fingers dig into your back and he says nothing.

“Come on, Jade,” Rose says after a moment. You pull away from John and he looks panicked for a second like you’re actually going to leave him with Dave. You wouldn’t entrust Dave with dog shit at this point.

“Do you think Dave could show me my room?” you ask Rose, “No offense, I just want to speak with him.”

You see John shaking his head in your peripherals. You ignore him. You have to do this for him.

“I suppose…” Rose murmurs, much to Dave’s apparent chagrin, “Alright, off you two go. I’m going to speak with John a moment, yes?”

Dave grumbles something under his breath, Rose turn to look at him and repeats, “Yes?”

“Yes, fine, Jesus,” he says, throwing his hands up and drawing his vision away from John, who doesn’t look a bit relieved.

“End of the hall. I just cleaned up. Do be courteous, brother.”

“I’ll try,” Dave says, then motions for you to follow him out. You do, and toss a look over your shoulder as Rose slides onto the bed, gracefully folding her legs over another and speaking softly to John. John catches your eye as you leave and he has almost a pleading expression, but you trust Rose. You don’t know why, you just do. You close the door, daring to leave it open just a crack, then turn your attention back to Dave who has already made it to the end of the hall and is waiting for you.

He nudges the door open with the toe of his boot when you approach. You step in and inspect the room. It’s quaint, with hardwood floors and blank white walls. The furniture is matching and made of oak, the bedsheets are green. It looks like a model home. You turn around to see Dave who is standing right outside your door, thumbs in his pockets.

You tell him, neutrally, “Thank you,” making sure not to step too far into the room in case he tried to follow. You stepped back and turned around to leave, to see if Jake was still movie-marathoning and if you could join.

He doesn’t let you. He slams his forearm against the door and you stumble back, rushing to grab ahold of the door before he could slam it closed. God, you should’ve just _known_ this wasn't gonna blow-over easy. This asshole wasn’t ready to let you win. You shove your foot between the frame the oak wood of the door to keep it open and try your hardest to pry it back open. You’ve got a death grip on the doorknob, and you brace your other arm on the wall just about the lightswitch, pushing back and trying to get some leverage on him.

“You’re not telling anyone,” he tells you in a low voice. You aren’t scared of him.

“Don’t tell me what to do, jackass,” you grind out, “You’re not hurting him ever again. I won’t let you.”

He must be glaring behinds his shades. All of a sudden, he lets go of the door, and you go tumbling backward. Your head smacks against the ground and all you can feel is the pain on the back of your head, barely registering that Dave is advancing on you until it’s too late and he already has the upper hand. You valiantly shove backward at the last minute, back against the footboard of the bed, and kick him almost squarely in the groin before the grabs your leg in action and drags you forward, dropping to pin you to the ground. You shove your knee upwards, not sure what else to do besides crotch-shots since he’s got both your arms above your head.

You get him this time. He hisses and one of his hands goes slack on your wrist, so much so that you can wiggle it away and draw back to punch him in the face. You get him on the bridge of his nose, you know you haven’t broken it, but you sure as hell are gonna leave a bruise. He grabs a fistful of your hair and slams the side of your head against the wooden footboard and when you feel your pride diminish enough to scream, to alert one of your family members or something, he’s got his hand over your mouth and your vision is already blurring.

He tugs you back by the hair, stands up over you, and when you try to get up, voice on the verge of launching into another throat-wrenching scream, he knees you hard enough under the chin to get you to cease the fight entirely.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry its been so long!!! i had the longest bout of writer's block i've ever had for this fic. i'm going to try and get into the mood of udpating on a biweekly basis, but we'll just have to see how that goes! 
> 
>  
> 
> [next time i don't update bully me on my tumblr.](http://luciferslittlekitten.tumblr.com/)

**=== > BE JOHN. **

Your hope fades with the quiet closing of your guest room door.

You don’t think Jade understands Dave. You don’t think Jade understands his strength over her own. She is strong, she’s got better biceps than Jake does and for all the time that guy spends obsessing over his body (he’s short as hell, especially compared to his little sister, so he’s got to have something to make up for that) that's pretty impressive, but you’re terrified Dave is going to overpower her. You’re no game, you’re so much shorter than the Englishes it’s ridiculous you’re even in the same family, but Dave is topping out at six-foot-something-or-other, and Jade is five-ten, max. Sure, she’s stronger than five of you, but her chances up against Dave are slim.

You try not to think about the fact Dave could do more things to her than just give her a black eye because it makes your stomach stir like you’re going to throw up all over your bed.

Rose inches up from the foot of the bed, and you jerk away from her so fast the cuts on your thigh split open again. They might be bleeding out onto his bed sheets because where your bare skin rubs against the covers you can feel something crusty and dry (you _hope_ it’s blood, honestly). She doesn’t stray away, though, setting a cold hand on your shoulder. You flinch away from her touch. You don’t need anyone else touching you ever again.

The only light in the room is a dim lamp, and the shadows darklight her features in an intimidating manner. She’s not unattractive, her face is heart-shaped and less of a conglomerate of angles with sharp jawlines and harsh tan. She’s pale compared to her siblings, almost like the most light she ever gets is artificial lamplight. She purses her lips, painted with black, and tuts.

“John,” she tells you, with a shake of her head, “I know how he is.”

She doesn’t speak with a Southern twang, and you wonder if she worked it off like you had your stutter. But, besides the smooth accent, you can sense something else in her tone. You can already tell she’s reluctant to do anything about it. You can already tell she doesn’t want to say anything about her brother abusing you like that. The word " _rape"_ comes to mind, but really, you can’t bring yourself to use it.

And it’s odd. Because you feel torn up. But you also feel relieved that it wasn’t as awful as you’d always heard it to be.

“He’s awful,” you whisper, pressing your face into the sheets, “I-I didn’t even d- _do_ anything to him, he jus-just…”

Your stutter is coming back quicker, stronger, and you hate it. You bite down on your bottom lip and feel tears sting at your eyes again. Rose shushes you, rubbing your forearm soothingly. Her hands feel smooth, almost skeletal. Her fingers are long and graceful, and her nails are manicured. And, still, her skin is ice-cold. “I know,” she repeats herself, “Sh, shh… It’ll feel better soon, John. I promise you.”

“Tell him t-to n-not… you know,” your voice breaks off, desperate, needy, and Rose nods like she’s a mother listening to a particularly petulant child whine. She makes it look like your demands are unreasonably high.

“Dear…” she starts, then sighs, “I’m sorry. But Dave never has had any finesse, he really does fancy you at heart.”

You pull your knees up to your chest, lock the sheets under your chin, and try not to tremble like a point 7 earthquake. Your hands wrap around your legs. “Doesn’t seem like it,” you whisper.

“Darling, John, oh…” she shakes her head at your pitiful display, “It’s okay. Dave will come around. He’s so backward in how he handles things. You know those old wives’ tales, how boys play rough when they like you. I’m sure it’s apparent Dave isn’t terribly mature. He’ll come around.”

You stare at her incredulously. “Y-You’re not g-gonna…” you stutter out, though you haven’t stuttered since you were ten years old. You’re a public speaker, last year you’d gotten perfect grades in that class, but you might as well have failed for all your articulation now. Your voice breaks as you shiver abruptly, hiding your lower face back in your knees. Rose can talk for you.

“I couldn’t,” she tells you, softly, trying to look sympathetic. You doubt this girl is human, she’s so awful at imitating emotion, “He’s my brother, John.”

“I wanna go home,” you whisper against your skin, and you squeeze your eyes shut. This is too much. You cannot deal with this right now.

“I know it seems bad,” she tells you gently, stroking the side of your face in a way so patronizingly matriarchal you almost want to flinch away. She forces you into it, her fingernails digging under your chin, “I know, John. It must seem like a nightmare what with how this has all happened to you.”

You swallow deeply. Rose just tsks and pets your hair rather than your cheek, ruffling it like you’re some kind of pet. “Be good to my brother, and he’ll be good to you. Oh, out of all of us… He’s quite the hothead, let me say. You’ve got him right in the palm of your hand, too. He’s going to grow even closer to you, it’s what he does. He blows like a firecracker, and I promise you, John…” the hand in your hair trails down your cheek to lift up your face. You blink at her. She smiles, strange, mechanical, practiced, “It hurts when he explodes.”  

You stare at her. Your cuts sting, your ass aches, your head feels boiling and dizzy and your eyes itch of tears. You jerk backward, blink your eyes as the tears begin to fall again, and you lean over the side of the bed and vomit.  

You cough up everything in your stomach, and your throat is sore when you gag on nothing a couple more time. You fist your hands in the sheets and begin to sob. You’re quiet this time, you’ve just about cried yourself dry and you feel absolutely weak, your body trembles like a leaf and you bring one arm up to wrap around yourself, because compared to your head and mind, your body is so, so cold.

Rose does nothing. She watches you, angling her head, choosing words but not saying them aloud. She must be delighting in your pain, and though you want to straighten up and stand up for yourself, you only cry harder. You don’t feel like choking on your breath, you don’t think you’re panicking anymore, but you’re so, _so_ scared.

The door opens and you hiccup, still shaking, still crying, still keeled over on the bed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

You cannot look at him. You will not look at him. The bed creaks when Rose stands.

“He’s overwhelmed,” she tells Dave, “Lower your voice.”

“He’s like a dog, can he not control himself?” Dave sounds upset, hostile like he’s really been riled up. You can only hope Jade gave him a run for his money, “Fuckin’ dumpy ass, dumbass…”

“You hurt him again tonight, you spoil your own party games, Dave. I’ve _told_ you to take these things slowly, have I not? Have I not told you that a young boy is a very _delicate_ specimen? You can’t go around treating them like this!”

“His pansy ass ain’t gettin’ special treatment ‘cause you thinks he’s something cute,” Dave drops his voice, and your eyes stay trained on the dirty bed sheets but you can imagine him nearing on Rose, “He’s fine. Let me handle him how I’ve gotta.”

“You’re disgusting, Dave,” she tells him, voice strong above his deadly whisper, “Go to bed. And leave your boy alone.” You heard the squeak of her heel on the polished hardwood as she turns, walks away, and slams the door behind her. The sliver of light from the hallway is gone. You try to stop your trembling, look over at him in the darkness. He grumbles something under his breath, walks across the room, and flicks on the bathroom light. You can hear more than you see him doing something in there as you gently pull your legs up and pull the blankets tighter over yourself. You shrink under the covers and bury your face in the pillow.

You close your eyes when something hits the ground with a thud, and you look up at Dave, with a pail of water and suds, cleaning up your mess. It makes you feel something, past the shame and the hurt, that he’s still cleaning up after you. This fight is still yours.

“Fuckin’ disgusting and shit,” he mutter, under his breath, and it’s almost funny. Your throat is too sore to laugh, though, and perhaps that’s for the best.

“I do one good thing for you, even takin’ my time to get you to feel nice. And you’re still gonna bitch?” the balls of his hands press into the rag, almost like it’s his stress reliever. He looks like he’d much rather have his hands on you. “Brat. Ungrateful brat.”

You bite down something snarky. It’s really not the time to anger Dave again, and frankly, you don’t think that should be any time. He grumbles something under his breath, dissatisfied and upset, and through the light, you can see drying blood on his lip. You blink and wonder if Jade looks worse, or if she fought him off. You figure he must’ve had a bloody nose, and if Jade can lock in a punch that well…

Your hopes rise. Maybe Jade did overpower six-foot-something-or-other Dave. 

“You’re gonna start respecting me, you hear?” he says again, sunglasses that are clipped to his shirt thwacking against his chest on every tug backward. Your keep your eyes trained on them. You’re not going to look at him. “I’m gonna be good to you if you respect me. You ain’t leaving, so I suggest you get used to things around here.”

You want to spit on him. You suck in your lower lip and chew on it, though, and you tell yourself that he’s trying to scare you into submission. You’re not afraid of him, you’re not afraid of him, you’re _not afraid._ It’s the rambling of a defeated, crazed lunatic who wants you to believe he’s still in charge. You’re not going to let him lower your morale this far. You’re not going to break into another panic attack and let him think he’s gaining control over you.

He tosses the rag over the side of the pail and throws a bath towel over the wet spot on the hardwood. You close your eyes as he stands, still for a moment and you can practically feel him staring before he turns and walks to the bathroom. Even behind closed eyelids, you can see the bathroom light flick off.

He pushes the blankets off of you and you flinch away, careless as you scramble to push across the mattress. He is never touching you again, you will not let him.

“Don’t be like that,” he says, “Get over here, John.”

You kick back and stay put. He’s not touching you again. He’s not touching you ever again. He doesn’t have the right.

“John,” he says, testily, “What did I say about respect?”

“Get away from me. Don’t touch me.” Your voice is a whisper, a squeak. He’s crazy. He’s absolutely insane. You will not respect him, never, ever respect him, and you don’t know why he thinks you would start.

“You’re scared,” he notes, somberly, almost like if he's harboring some profound realization. He stops standing so rigidly, stops trying to look dominating, and he pulls himself onto the bed. His sunglasses are on the nightstand. His shoes are kicked off. You don’t move. You have nowhere to go. He’d grab you and kill you if you ran for the door, you’d fall off the bed if you tried to move away from him. You cast your eyes downward and shamefully move towards him. You’re not scared of him. He’s not going to touch you _like that_ ever again. You’re going to get out, you know you will if you just give him what he wants.

His hand meets the side of your face, gently, he cups it and you feel like you’re going to throw up again.  Your throat hurts and your eyes want to fall shut. You’re so, so tired.

“I’m not going to hurt you again,” he says, he lies, and you only nod faintly and press closer to him. His arm wraps around your midsection and you press your face into his chest. He smells like apple pie and tobacco and you shake in his arms. He sees this as endearing, or something equally as repulsive, and he pulls you closer.

He kisses your scalp and presses his face into your hair. He smells it, too, the creepy bastard, and he repeats in a murmur, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You can see the light that was on in the hall, spilling from underneath the door, flick off. It’s completely dark now, and you can hardly see the lettering of the faded word “Texas” on his Longhorns shirt. He’s holding onto you tighter, now, in the inky blackness. You close your eyes and you whisper, “You will.”

He doesn’t hear you.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters in the same week??? it's more likely than you think.  
> also!!! wowie. someone messaged me on tumblr and totally motivated me to write. so, here, random blogger. this janeroxy is for you.
> 
>  
> 
> [you can catch me on my tumblr here.](http://luciferslittlekitten.tumblr.com/)

**=== > BE JANE. **

“And _that’s_ how come Dirk and I are so damn close! ‘Cause Rosey was always off with Mama, and Daddy was always working his tailfeathers off, so Dirk and I gravitated. Of course, after a while he did start getting involved with whatever Papa took up his business in, and then he started spending more time with Dave. Lord, Dirk was obsessed with Davey for a long, long while. You would’a thought they were joined at the hip!”

You’re half scared Roxy is gonna get bright blue nail polish all over your cuticles and knuckles as she tells her rampant tales, but her hands are steadier than you can ever get yours to be. You suspect she’d be darn good at doing eyeliner because all your flaws in that department come from shaky hands on important parts.

Her room feels more like child’s than a grown woman’s, not that you are complaining. She has a queen bed with light pink bedsheets and a plush chair in the corner stacked high with knit stuffed animals. Frilly pink curtains were drawn over her window, and figurines of wizards accented her desktops. You're sitting just beside her bed on the pink shag rug over her spotless white carpet. The girl has buckets of nail polish, and you wonder, how lonely did she get out here?

“You have so much makeup, gosh, Roxy…” you muse after her story feeds out to silence. She laughs.

“Hey, ain’t no thang. Mama was the one who gave me all the shades she didn’t like, and she bought me my first couple of lippies, too,” Roxy sighed dreamily, “God, she was a gorgeous woman. And, y’know, all these years I’ve been wanting someone to try all my makeup on besides myself. Rosey would play, sometimes, but you’ve only met Rosey for the night, and she’s…”

“I know,” you admit, shaking your head. Rose certainly was an oddball.

“So you know, yeah,” she shrugs, tapped the underside of your wrist to get you to move your hand upwards, and she blew on your wet nails, “Other hand?” You gave her your right hand and she put the cap back on the polish, shook the bottle, and then continued with painting your nails, pinky to thumb. “She never wanted to play dress-up or dollies with me when she was about ten or eleven. She was a real brainy girl, wanted to read and write and light up all those damn scented candles. Just about gave me an allergy attack every time.”

“Gosh, Roxy,” you murmur, shaking your head, looking up at her though she’s fixated on painting your nails electric blue, “That doesn’t sound like much of a time at all.”

“Nah. But Rosey’s alright. Just couldn’t help getting a little jealous, you know? Dirk had Dave, and Rose wouldn’t have me,” she squints and layers another coat on your ring finger, “Maybe it’s best I never got too close. Dirk and Dave are weirdos ‘cause of it. Got that weird, weird brotherly bond shit. They’re, like, spooky sometimes. They walk in synch and can always finish each other’s—,”

“Sentences,” you finish with her and you two stare at each other for a second before dissolving into hysteric giggles. God, the feeling of it all! You can almost think like you’re a much younger girl. You’d never had such close friends to giggle and toy with. You feel absolutely elated in Roxy’s mere presence, and you fancy this to be the highlight of your yet-to-be-completed trip to Austin.

“Aw, drat,” she complains, breathlessly, “I got some on your finger.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” you say through your giggles, attempting to stifle them by placing your hand before your mouth, “Just finish up here. You’re really good at painting nails.”

“Time. And you should know I had nothing but time down here in Fuckville Nowhere,” she tries to wipe and scratch away the nail polish along the side of your ring finger, but only manages in smudging the blue. She just sighs and moves on to the next one. “You’ve got real pretty hands, Janey. I swear you could almost be one of them hand models or something.”

You go pink in the cheeks and avert your eyes. “Oh, stop it. They’re just hands, Roxy, I wouldn’t even call them anything special!”

“But look at ‘em!” she insists, delivering a final stroke to your thumb before capping the nail polish. She raises both of your hands up by the palms of them and blows gently over the nails. “They’re real soft, and they ain’t dry or nothing… You should see Dirk’s, ‘specially back when Daddy got mad at him and made him go out and pick cotton? Whew. He was bleeding from his knuckles, just ‘bout.”

“Your…” you started, and she let go of your hands to lean over and grab the bottle of nail polish remover from the basket of her shades, fishing out a cotton ear swab with it, “Your father made him pick cotton?”

“When he got mouthy, yeah. We never paid much find to the fields out there, but Dirk wasn’t allowed in for supper or given any breaks or nothing, so…” Roxy shrugged, uncapping the nail polish and carefully pouring some of the solution into the cap, “You know. He stopped being so ballsy.”

She set the bottle aside, dipping the q-tip in the nail polish remover, and took your hand gently. She scrubbed the nail polish she’d smeared on your finger gently off, very carefully.

“That doesn’t sound nice,” you said after a moment.

“It wasn’t. Should’a seen Dirk when Daddy decided to stop being a dick to him, he near ‘bout vomited from all that sun.”

You shook your head. “That’s awful. My dad wouldn’t ever have done something like that to me.”

“Daddy was hard on the boys. Dirk and Dave always got the worst of it. ‘Cause, see, me and Rosey were Mama’s work,” she shrugged, pulled back, and squinted at your finger. She dabbed at one last spot before tossing the q-tip in the general direction of the trash can and capping the nail polish removed, effectively spilling some of the solution on her flannel pajama bottoms. Roxy didn’t seem to notice this.

“...Was your mother any kinder?”

“When she wasn’t drunk, she was alright,” she said, “She didn’t care too much, though. About the boys. You know, um, she mainly preoccupied herself with us. Like we were her only concerns. So Dirk and Dave were really isolated from their Mama, I think it kinda, you know...”

She trailed off. You blinked at her, all taut and pulled close together. She looked so tangled up.

“Roxy?” you asked testily, “Are you alright?”

You tapped her on the shoulder gingerly and set her strings haywire.

“Oh, I’m fine!” she says immediately, smiling up at you. She forces a little chuckle, “God, yeah, I’m fine. Jeez, we’re getting all up and emotional! Let me do your eye makeup.”

“Oh, um, okay,” you stutter because she’s across the room before you can deny her.

She fetches a couple of things from her vanity. Your vision drops back to the floor and you sigh. You didn’t want to pry, but you wanted to know a lot more about Roxy. Her entire life is shrouded in mystery, and you love mysteries. The only thing that combats that love is how much you hate not figuring them out, and oftentimes, you never are able to.

“Wanna go for blue eye shadow?” she asks.

“Jeez, I haven’t done blue since middle school,” you admit.

“Ready to try something new, then?”

She skids back across the room and lets her load of makeup make contact with the carpet, she digs through it and motions for you to shut your eyes, biting down on a brush between her teeth as she tries to find a specific palette. Your eyelids flutter shut and you lean into her just a tad. She hums something as she flicks through shades and such. You bite back the urge to ask a plethora of invasive questions. If you want answers, you can’t be so awfully transparent. And you _like_ Roxy.

“So… Your parents,” you begin slowly as she begins on your eye makeup, strokes of a brush delicate over the lid of your eye, “Are they..?”

“No longer with us, I’m afraid,” she says quickly, “Um, we lost them quite a few years back.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,”

“Don’t be,” she says, “Really. We’re all over it by now.”

You figured they had their own reasons to not care so much about the death of their parent’s. Or maybe they did, and it was just a sore spot. Either way, you decided you were making Roxy clammy and uncomfortable enough as it were.

“You know, when Dirk finishes our car, you should really tag along.”

She stops moving for a second, and you almost open your eyes. But, then she speaks. “Tag along?”

“On our trip. We’re going up to Austin. I’d like to spend more time with you.”

“Oh, that’s sweet, Janey,” she clears her throat, “I don’t know about it, though. Maybe you could just… stay with us?”

“I wish,” you say with a laugh. A nervous one bubbles out of her, too. “But Jake’s going to be insisting we get going.”

“Yeah,” she says, “Yeah, I bet he will. Ah, well, we can always stay in touch! We’ve got the landline, and you’re free to visit whenever you please.”

“That’s very kind of you, Roxy,” you tell her. She’s finished with the light eyeshadow on your eyes, and you hear her shaking a bottle for a second before she starts on your eyeliner, winging it out a little farther than you ever would. By the time she’s finished with both eyes, in a span of seconds that would put your morning routine to shame, she taps the side of your face and you open your eyes.

She grins at you. “You look so pretty! Here, try a red stain. It’ll look good for you. That shade you were wearing earlier was so gorgeous. Stay right here, I have one last thing.”

She grabs your hand and closes your fingers around a red liquid matte before pushing up and sliding around her bed to rummage in her drawers. You grab a compact from the mess of makeup on the ground, putting on the lipstick after inspecting your make-up. Roxy had really done a remarkable job. It looks fantastic.

You pop your lips when Roxy came back around. You look up at her from the compact and she shuts it closed for you on her way down. She holds out what looks to be a tiara to you, and you laugh, taking it and situating it on your head. She adjusts it, tugging out a couple locks of hair and such, and then grins.

“You’re real gorgeous, Janey,” she tells you. You roll your eyes. Roxy didn’t seem like the type to wear jewelry, you had no clue where she’d gotten this thing.

“Thank you, Roxy,” you told her, genuinely, but you lifted the tiara from your head. She pouted with a little ‘aww.’ “And this is pretty! But I don’t think it’s very ‘me.’”

You set the tiara aside, tapping the side of her face. She shut her eyes, and you looked for a nude palette to use on her eyes. You found one, and while it wasn't the  _Naked3_ palette like you had at home, it looked nice enough to you. 

"My turn," you sing-song as you find a clean brush to use. You set the palette on your knee and took up the tiara, dropping it on her forehead before you began to work on her make-up. The reflection of yourself in the shiny gold had you distracted, though. 

You stare at the tiara that hung over her forehead for a moment, then chuckle. “You're not even a Pisces, silly.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry!!! i know i said i was gonna update last weekend but honestly i kind of hated this chapter and spent all week going over it and rewriting it ghdjska
> 
> im sorry if the dirkjake dynamic is a little shitty 
> 
>  
> 
> also, thank you all for the messages!! even if you were just cyberbullying me. 1 kudos = 1 end to cyberbullying
> 
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> 
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**=== > BE JAKE. **

You’re acutely aware of the drool drying on Dirk’s shirt, which is more than likely yours because you’re more preoccupied with the fact you’re pressed up against him like sardines. His arm is thrown around you, and you aren’t quite sure where your glasses are, but you’re lucky for that since you don’t think it would be very comfortable to have them squished against his chest with the rest of your face.

You feel strangely woozy. You rub your face against Dirk’s chest and try to stretch out the crick in your neck. Your head hurts a little. Dimly, you feel like you’ve got the makings of a hangover, and you can only hope Dirk will help you nurse it. Normally, you don’t get hungover from a couple of beers, but your head is spinning. 

You don't remember an awful lot about last night. Dirk and you had shared some drinks, watched some movies, had some laughs… and then the memories went hazy. Of course, the night had been trying, you know that, since you hadn’t exactly been thinking Puritan thoughts when Dirk gave you a drink, and you were thinking raunchier things once you’d downed it and wound up feeling almost immediately drunk. And frisky. And, boy, you hope you didn’t embarrass yourself.

You sigh, and he grunts and presses himself against you and your legs tense up. You blink, your forehead pressed compact against the fabric of his too-tight wifebeater. You bite down on your cheek and adjust yourself, smushing yourself against him. You can hardly hear the buzz of the fan over your headache, and you mutter some explicit content under your breath, practically headbutting him.

You suck in your stomach, since it’s spinning just as much as your head, and you try to stare up at Dirk. He’s sleeping, contentedly, but you hardly care enough about him snoozing like a baby. You tug away the hand of yours that is sandwiched between you two and brush hair from his face.

He catches your wrist lazily. You blink up at him, surprised by how off-guard you had been, and he peeks open an eye. “G’morning.”

“Salutations,” you mumble, lidding your eyes. They felt heavier than a horse, and your forehead made contact with Dirk’s chest again. 

“Tired, still?” he asks you softly, carding his fingers through your hair. “You practically passed out on me, man.”

His fingers caress the nape of your neck, and you lock up your shoulders. He doesn’t seem immensely pleased by your hesitance to his touch, and his thumb presses down on the knob of your spine in a silent statement of, “Just fuckin’ relax.” You swallow and try to ease out the tension in your shoulders, like Dirk has become some unspoken, unwittingly masseuse. He’s still got a head worth of height on you in the position, and the fingers in your hair are a wonder for your migraine.

“We watched that movie you begged us to, last night, and then Ferris Bueller. Which is ten times better.” His hand trails around the back of your held and tips your face up towards him, “You’re lucky you stayed asleep all of last night, you probably would’ve gotten scared.” 

You eye him cautiously. “Scared, you say?”

“Started watching crime shows when you went to sleep. Unsolved murder cases. Cold cases.” His finger drags up your cheekbone, and you’re too hazy to care. His voice drops, his focus is fixated on your forehead as if he doesn’t want to look you in the eyes, “I didn’t want to creep you out.” 

“Nuh-uh,” you assure him, vaguely, that you would’ve been swell. Then, for added clarification, “I’m a man.” 

“I still could have alarmed you,” he says, gently as he can. He doesn’t sound an awful lot like the Dirk you’d been snickering your heinie off with last night. He sounds vacant, dim, and awful interested with the part of your hair.

You just laugh, though, because he must be playing a part. You rub a hand over his shoulder, down his arm, and you try not to get caught up in his muscle mass. Your fingers mindlessly try to wrap themselves around his biceps. He’s watching you. “Alarmed, smhlarmed. I’d have been back on my tip-toes in tip-top shape before you could say—,” 

“Enough,” he tells you, and he chuckles a little, “You wouldn’t have made it, even if you weren’t scared. You were hammered.”

“Feel like my noggin has collided with a... nuclear-powered rocket.” He snorts, and you shove your shoulder against him to make it known you aren’t joking. Your hip pokes against his thigh. “How much did you let me friggin’ drink, chum?” 

“You’re probably just a lightweight,” he tells you, the pads of his fingers dragging lightly over your cranium, “We only had beers. Ain’t that much to get drunk off in a beer.” 

“I suppose… not,” you mumble. You’re just a little too tired to feel super conscious of how touchy Dirk is being, and just a little too awake to ask him to rub your shoulders. You slide a hand over his upper arm and shimmy yourself up to your faces are at level. The hand of his settled on your hip makes a detour around your waist and presses you close to him so you don’t fall off the couch.

“Hey,” he says, tucking hair behind your ear. You catch his hand before he tugs it back. 

“Hey,” you parrot, pressing your thumb into his palm. He considers you a moment, and then he pulls himself up. His arm is gone from your waist, which had been acting as your support beam keeping you on the sofa. You catch yourself on the armrest of the couch before you go falling into the glass coffee table, and you crowd yourself into the corner of the couch, sitting up on the armrest itself with the purple quilt pulled taut around your shoulders. 

Your stomach is even worse-off when you’re standing straight. You press your hand over your stomach and suck in a breath. “What time is it?” 

He checks the towering clock behind himself. “Ten.” 

“Ten?” you exclaim, jumping up, which you immediately regret from the lurch of your stomach, “Oh, drat…” you push your forearm harder against your stomach, “It’s late as bloody hell.” 

He scoffs. “It ain’t so late. I like sleeping in.” 

“I’d be out on my morning run by now,” you sigh, intent on bragging, “I like keeping composed.”

Truth be told, you were used to getting fucked up and fucked on Friday night, albeit it being with girly drinks and whatever Joe made a move on you. You think this may have been a Thursday night, but that was completely irrelevant, so was the fact you’d only had one beer and Dirk hadn’t even made a pass at you. 

And you probably couldn’t jog if you wanted to, your headache and stomachache reminded you. 

Dirk raises an eyebrow. “You go on a run every morning?” 

“Early to bed, and early to rise,” you shrug nonchalantly, leaning back casually which results in a sharp slosh of your stomach, “Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and—,” 

You cut yourself off with the complaint of your stomach, and you just about keel over. Dirk gives you a steady look and hardly moves when you look just about ready to projectile vomit all over his couch. 

“You feelin’ ill?” he watches you squirm for a second, then straightens up to lay you back on the couch with a heave of breath. In fact, as your nod would suggest, you feel on the verge of death. You wonder if you’ve developed severe stomach cancer.

Dirk’s hand is on your forehead, and then your stomach, the ball of his hand presses into your hip, and his fingers laying cold against your abdomen. You suck in your stomach with the bob of your Adam’s apple, glancing up at him. He considers you for a long, long while. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” 

And he pushes up from the couch, and scampers off to wherever the buggering hell he’s going, and you fold both your arms over your stomach. Your hangovers were usually never bad, and while you had always been a nightmare when just tipsy, now you felt like all those anti-drinking sentiments you’d seen in high school had genuinely been worth more than a tongue-in-cheek jab or a scoff. 

You scrunch up your face, try to image your Gramma telling you to be her brave little swashbuckler when you’d gotten the swine flu at eight, and distract yourself. Your eyes follow the ceiling fan until you make your headache worse. You quickly avert your gaze, the interior of the room, the intricateness of the floral wallpaper, anything to keep your mind from the organ-eating bacteria potentially in your stomach. 

You stare at the grandfather clock across the room and the dangling of the pendulum. 

Oak wood and colorless blankets and pillows. Above the fireplace is a horse’s head, and you really can not see how any one person would gut and stuff a horse of all things. You can see some of the kitchen from the arching entryway to the foyer, and and you let yourself slip further down the couch. You think about how the couch is soft, and not leather, so you make a mental note not to vomit on it.

The mantel is adjourned with clay plots, wooden picture frames, and a single, broken cross. One of the sides had been ripped off and it hangs above the fireplace at an angle, swaying on every wayward breath of the fan. It entertains you, for a moment, how they would and  _ why  _ they would keep it around. It couldn’t be so hard to carve out a new cross. 

Your living room is lively. There’s a being behind the green of the throw pillows and the browns of the couches and the stuffed heads of deer and moose and that huge, taxidermied bear in the den. It has a lot of windows, and a lot of tables, and it’s always housing thousands of hundreds of zillions of people. Even where your cousins live, some conservative Jewish neighborhood in Washington, they own a loving property. You aren’t one to be a home elitist, but you absolutely are. Their home is just nice. 

Well, to be critically blunt, not as nice as yours. 

Your head drops against the armrest again and you sigh. Dirk must’ve been gone twenty, thirty, forty… you really didn’t know. Perhaps it was no more than five, and perhaps you were overreacting, but it feels like a lot of time is passing. With every tick, you grow more antsy, and your migraine grows worse. You sit up and reach for your glasses on the side table. Even through fuzzied vision, you cannot see them. You furrow your brow and pull yourself up onto your knees, leaning over to tug over the drawer. 

It’s stuck, and a bottle of something falls off the table when it finally pops open, but you pay it no mind. You retrieve your glasses from the drawer and put them on. 

Nevermind. They’re not your glasses. You’re an idiot. They’re oval-shaped and one of the lenses is cracked, the other one slightly more disorienting, like the left eye was of a heavier prescription. You let them slip down your nose. You peer over the top of the couch at what you’d knocked to the floor, and you struggle to grab it. You manage to swing it, though, and you pull yourself back into a sitting position on your hatches. The quilt has fall down and lays around your hips as you squint at a bottle, an orangey bottle of prescription medication. You can’t exactly read what it’s saying, though, curse your damn farsightedness. You take off the glasses and drop them between your knees. 

“Jake?” 

You jump a little, dropping the bottle again. Your thighs press together, and the glasses are pressed into the crack of the couch. You catch wind of Dirk approaching you, and you lean over to set the bottle back on the nightstand before he can get mad at you for touching his medicine, but he’s got your wrist in a matter of moments and you tense up as his grip isn’t exactly forgiving. 

“I told you not to move.” 

“Let’s not blow a gasket, chum,” you laugh nervously, “I was only looking for my glasses and I thought, maybe, there was some Advil…” 

“This isn’t Advil,” he informs you lowly. You tug your wrist back, and he doesn’t even budge, “I said I was going to get you Advil, Jake.” 

“Yes, I know, I just…” you choke on more nervous laughter, “Bad headache! Ah, you know the ones, I was, um, desperate…” 

“Listen next time,” he tells you, slowly, and he glances towards the half-open drawer. He drops your wrist to pull it back open and inspect the interior. His face goes slack, or at least, you think it does. Your gaze flickers down to the still-open drawer.

“Are they yours?” you ask him after a moment, “What are you on meds for, chap?” 

“No,” he says, “No, they’re not for me anymore.” 

He shoves the bottle into his pocket, and you can only feel bad. Maybe he had some wacked-up issues he needed the meds for, and you’d intruded. You open your mouth to say something, but he speaks first. 

“Don’t touch my things.”

“Of course, pal, I really didn’t mean to be all up and sorts of invasive—,” you start to heavily apologize, until he continues, harshly cutting you off, “Okay?”

“Okay,” you parrot, softer. He takes a breath, and he slides a little bottle out of his pocket, tossing it to you. You catch it, messing with the childproof cap as you stare up at Dirk. He is looking right at you. 

“That should help with your hangover,” he says, “How about we cook up pancakes or something? I haven’t ever met a guy who hasn’t thoroughly enjoyed a pancake made by yours truly?” 

“You cook?” 

“Hah. No. Roxy leaves me instructions. Let’s get at ‘em, tiger,” he gives you a half-smile, “You down a pill or two, I’ll get shit ready in the kitchen. Capisce?” 

“Ca—,” you start, but he’s already leaving by the times you lamely finish, “—pisce.”

You stare at the archway for a long while, and then you look down at the bottle in your hand. You push down on the cap and let it click open, knocking two pills into your empty palm. There’s a bottle of beer on the floor next to the couch, but you’re not going to drink while you’re already hungover. You know dry-swallowing pills is dumb of you, and you Gramma had told you it could burn your throat out, but you disregard it and throw them back like that anyways. It’s a hard mouthful to swallow, but to be fair, you’ve said that about less than just a couple of pills. 

You pull the glasses out from the slit of the couch and draw your thumb over the cracked lense. Strong prescription with a shit make and model, obviously not Gucci or anything like it. You suppose it could be an old pair of Rose’s, she seems like a lady to keep glasses about. You toss them onto the end table and disregard it. They’re just glasses, you’re not unveiling some grandioso mystery. 

“Do you have chocolate chips?” you call out to him when you finally straighten up a little more. 

“I’m sure we could find some,” he hollers back, and you take a deep breath to steady yourself before you let the blanket fall from your shoulders.

You pull your shorts up a little higher on your hips and start to the kitchen. The hangover’s bad, but Strider is  _ bad _ , and you’re not going to let a bug stand in your way. Besides, you’ve only got a night or so left here, with him. You’re sure not going to put that to waste. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to my daddy for supporting me,, 
> 
> [and you should ](https://t.co/eQ5H7Zm9zy)[definitely listen to ](https://t.co/s5Clz73v0J)[all his music.](https://t.co/qmKzuFThgd)
> 
>  
> 
> [or just hmu on my tumblr lmao](http://luciferslittlekitten.tumblr.com/)

**=== > BE JADE. **

Your name is Jade Harley, and you are astronomically fucked. 

You’ve already untucked the handkerchief from cutting off your voice, but you’re far too cautious to start screaming again. You wipe dribbles of saliva from where they’ve dried on your chin, and you flinch when you press too hard on your neck. Your head aches, dully, and your eyes squint against the darkness of the room. You kick your legs over the side of the bed. The comforters are pulled down and hang past the footboard. 

You remember yesterday, faintly. You stare out the window and try to see if you can tell a time of day, but there’s no sunlight shining through. The shutters are pulled from the outside, and the windows are bolted shut, so the only light in the room is the shining crack of it from under the door. 

You step lightly, not wanting anyone to know you’re awake. because this gives you an advantage. You stand up, and as slow as molasses, you make your steps quiet as you possibly can, and you fidget with the window locks for the hell of it. Nothing. You don’t think anyone has opened this window since it was cemented in the house frame. 

You spin in your spot and step towards the doors, carefully staying out of the line of sight from the bottom. If your shadow obscured the light pouring through, and someone managed to notice, you feared you’d face some stark consequences. You’re in no state to fight, especially with a fully grown man, so now you must be cunning.

The doorknob you jiggle incessantly doesn't move, and you know it’s not flimsy wood you could bust down with your shoulder. All you’ll do is bruise yourself and maybe get more punches thrown your way if you alert anyone that you’re up. You nudge your shoulder lightly against the cold wood as if to test this theory, dejectedly.

You sigh lightly, stepping back from the door. You glance downwards and push back your hair before you lower yourself to the ground, closing one eye to try and catch a glimpse of the outside. You’re not wearing your glasses, so your vision is a little fuzzy, but you can see well enough to know that nothing is happening. You pull back and toss your hair over your shoulder, pulling one knee up to your chest.

Your bra strap slips from your shoulder, and you pull it back up and snap it in place. The clothes you wear feel silky against your skin, a stark comparison to what you’d been knocked out in. The hazy thought of Dave seeing you naked is enough to make you want to upchuck, much less the concept of him  _ dressing  _ you.

You don’t know what they want from you. Is it Dave alone? Is it all of them? You wondered if you told Rose, the only one you really could trust, would she call the police on her brother? You know you wouldn’t ever get Jake arrested, not in your lifetime, even if he’d murdered someone or twiddled some guy. The thought sounds gross, but you guess family is family even if that  _ does  _ entail some disgusting things. 

You consider trying to find something to pry open the bolts on that window, but you’re still on the second story, and you doubt there would be a safe landing spot if you jumped. Jake taught you how to get out with the safety of the shed to land on when he was in high school, and he used to sneak out during the nights. Of course, your grandparents knew, they just never said anything. But the Strider-Lalondes would definitely say something.

Your vision fixates on the doorknob until it’s a little less blurry to your straining eyes, either from the dark or for your lack of your specialty goggles. You wonder if you could pick it and find Jake? Jane? John? 

Oh, god, John. 

You pull yourself up to your feet immediately, dancing around on your bare feet in a small circle. You fly to the dresser, tearing through drawers are quickly and quietly as you can. You expect to find something, a loose screw, a stray bobby pin, even a rubber band for God’s sake. You find zip, zadda, zilch, and you huff in annoyance. There was always a chink in a kidnapper’s plan, no one could so flawlessly contain you. You’re the least likely person to be made into a damsel! You restrain from slamming a drawer shut in frustration, and turn to taking a deep breath. You turn to the nightstand drawers, dropping back to your knees to go through the drawers. The top one is just as empty, and you could scream. 

You hurriedly slide open the bottom one, and your hungry fingers search the expanse of polished oak wood inside. Your fingernails catch on a slip of paper. Cardstock. 

Your eyes go wide. You can do something with a card. 

But that’ll only open the door. You need a strategy, a plan, and your goddamn glasses and jeans. 

You quietly close the drawer and your eyes are almost drawn to the gaping door of the attached bathroom. You stand up, and with one foot in front of the other, you hurry into the bathroom and turn the handle before closing the door. You flick on the light, and instantly see your clothes soaking in the tub, dripping wet and staining the water a very lightly shade of pink. You don’t remember bleeding, but you suppose maybe you’d spilled some of Dave’s. You  _ hope  _ you spilled some of Dave’s. You kneel and pick up the shirt with your index finger, and it drips from your finger like a soppy mess before you huff and set it lightly back in the tub. You’ll just make do with your… well, whatever this get-up is.

You turn around to the sink and immediately flinch at your image in the mirror. There’s a bruise purpling under your chin, and drying blood on your eyebrow where Dave cracked your skull into the bedpost. Your hair’s a rat’s nest, your lip is split, and this is only the detail you can see with semi-blurred vision. Your hands find your glasses and you slip them on. Your gaze slips from your face, you really don’t want to see what he did to you. You’re betting that he’s not “the other guy” in this situation.

You try to ignore the slip of a thing you’re wearing, silky and purple, and barely covering your ass when coupled with your boyshorts. You wouldn’t wear something so vaguely… lingerie-y if you were held at gunpoint. You guess it’s good that you haven’t been fiddled with past your undies. Neither your underwear nor bra have been touched and you’re thankful for it even if you can see the cute little hearts on your bra through the thin fabric of the night gown. You’ve little time to be self-conscious. You lick your finger and scrub the blood from your eyebrow, and tip up your head to prod at the purple under your chin. 

You open the cabinet of the mirror and find the shelves disappointingly empty. So you’ve got a way out, but past that? You’ve still got three family members to retrieve, and you don’t even know how far you’ll get unless you can manage to hijack their car. And automobiles, of all things, have to be the  _ one  _ thing to escape you!

You’ll just have to find the keys, skate past the Strider-Lalondes, and pry John from under Dave’s doting, rapisty fingertips.

You’ve been watching kung-fu movies since you were four months old, you’ve got this. 

You think to yourself a little, mumbling nothings under your breath to keep your thinking steady. Panicking will get you nowhere, and will only manage to make you look weaker. Right now, you remind yourself, there are no allies. There are family and not-family, and your only priority is making sure your family gets out with two arms, legs, and eyes intact. Your real trouble is the lack of defense, the lack of a dead-set strategy, and, once again, the automobile issues you face. 

You sigh. You suppose you could always try and wrangle a phone, but you doubt the service is anything of marvel out here even if they did have a home phone you could snatch. You pound your forehead lightly against the palm of your hand, chastising yourself to think, think, _ think _ …. until your eyes land on the shower curtain. 

You narrow them, consider this approach, and step towards it to pull one of the metal hooks attaching the curtain to the bar out of its appropriate slots. You loop it around your index finger and run a hand through your messy hair. You allow yourself a couple moments of collection, inspecting the poor schlub’s business card you’ve acquired in your free hand. You wonder if Dave, the creep he is, does the same shit to door-to-door salesman, or, upon closer inspection of the card, attorneys at law. 

You take a deep breath before the bathroom light goes off and you go to pick the door of the bedroom open. It takes you a few long, silent moments before the lock clicks and you carefully slide the card into the waistband of your undies before tugging your nightshirt down. You open the door as quietly as you can and step into the dim hallway, lit solely by the glare of morning light through the hallway. Downstairs, you can hear rap music, and you walk the hall so slowly as if you were a tortoise and not a girl on the run from her captors. 

You can see the railing of the staircase and you glimpse over it into the empty expanse of the dining room. The sizzle of bacon and the booming voice of Jake alert you to the fact that he, unlike John and yourself, has remained un-fucked-with. You immediately fret for Jane, and you pause beside the door that leads into John’s room. It is with great strength you resist bursting in and rescuing him, pressing close to the wall and leaping past to door to hopefully keep your shadow as fleeting as possible. You pray Dave is asleep, and you pray even further he’s not in there with John at all.

Your fingers clutch the banister as you step down, ignoring the solitary squeaky step you’d noted yesterday, and glancing behind yourself occasionally. Your fingers tighten around the hook in your palm, and you swallow thickly before scaling the rest of the stairs faster than you’d taken the entire damn staircase. You pause at its base, wait for someone to come at you from any angle, and you only allow yourself to breath when nothing happens.

You’re your grandfather’s feisty young lassy. If you could shoot deer at six, you can take a man’s eye out with a shower curtain hook at seventeen. 

You can see the top of Jake’s obnoxious bed head over the bar. He’s humming along to some particularly obscene lyrics, most likely pretending he knows them at all. You’re not one to shame Jake for his quirks, but he’s one of the most flamboyant… flamboyantly…

You take a breath. You’re not being Nice Girl Harley right now, and your bitterness is down to your toes! You’re angry, and you’re not typically one to slut-shame, but God! For all his shyness, Jake’s a whore, and it wouldn’t surprise you if he’s fucked his way out of getting himself killed.

Your gaze flickers down the hall adjacent to the dining room, near the arch of the entry to the den, and you consider trying to fetch Jade. You know you run the risk of knocking into Rose or Roxy, though, and thought you normally trust women more than men as a whole, you fear Rose and Roxy might be in the same “family is always right” boat that you consider yourself to be the captain of. Hell, you have to be, for everything Jake’s done. The idea is gone before you can act on it, and you let your feet propel you into the kitchen. 

Jake’s in boxers, and dutifully attending to something over the stove. The radio skips a couple beats and Jake whistles with the fade of the instrumental break of some mid-80s rap garbage. You swallow and check behind your back, quickly. You fully intend to tell him you needed to G-E-T-O-U-T, but he spin to grab a little seasoning something-or-other and sees you before you can speak and hollers, “Strider! My little sister is up!” 

The metal of the hooks digs into your hand. You back up, intending to get out of the kitchen before you get trapped in her. There’s one exit to the kitchen, a slit between cabinets and counters, but Strider’s quick on his feet and Jake’s grin traps you in place. You feel Dave looming behind you more than you see him, and Jake leans to the side a little dopily. “Are you hungover, too?” 

“Uh, no!” you say, trying to keep a nervous tone from seeping into your voice. You school your vision on Jake’s face. He’s’ not wearing his glasses, but his eyes are kept wide rather than squinty like yours. “Just… wow, really tired!” 

He laughs, and turns the pot on the stove, stirring something into the brew. “Strider’s having me make grits. Isn’t that just something? I’ve never had grits before!” 

You grimace. You’ve had grits before. Your Southern friends were sure something, and you could safely say grits were far from a delicacy. Your clear your throat as Jake begins to hum again, and your smile widens unnaturally. 

“They used to make ballerinas kneel on those for punishment, you know,” you tell him, not wanting to get him to catch any suspicions. You know your can’t mouth anything to him or he’ll be so obvious to the bastard standing behind you that you’re revealing a secret about needing to, you know, G-E-T-O-U-T, but you can make yourself seem in-place while you want for your advantage. 

“Did they really!” he exclaims, interested perhaps more than he should be. 

“Oh, yeah. Those people were. Real. Crazy,” you nod, eyes flicking to your side multiple times. He keeps on smiling, none the wiser to the point you’re trying to make. “Really something! Old. Southern. Punishment,” your smile is all teeth. You speak against with a tangible forcefulness in your tone, “For when people were. Being. Extremely. Shitty.” 

You annunciate the words but Jake still doesn’t catch on, the dumbass he is. You’ve gotten over insulting your brother’s intelligence, you learned a long time ago that he wasn’t the kid anyone would put in Advanced Placement, but sometimes his stupidity can really bite you in the ass.  

“Strider, did you know that? Does that actually happen?” He stands up on his tip-toes to see over your shoulder, and you hear a breath behind you as Dave goes to respond. This is your chance, and it may be your only one. You give Jake a smile so his expressiveness doesn’t alert Dave of anything, and then you swerve around, bearing the hook, intend to jab it right into his eyes. 

You don’t see Dave, and you don’t manage to get far.  _ Dirk  _ catches your wrist, the shock evident on his face for just about a microsecond. You don’t let it catch you off guard for much longer than he lets you see his surprise, though, throwing a punch at him with your other hand. He catches that one almost as easily. Your movements are sluggish, and before you can even go back to the realm of crotchshots, he’s twisting your wrist until your fingers unbuckle and he can pry the hook from you. 

He lets go of it as soon as Jake hops up to take your arms from his protective grasp. Dirk plays with it in his hands and takes in your appearance. When he looks at you, you growl lowly. “Is this from our shower?” 

“Jade!” Jake exclaims behind you and you want to scream at him. He pushes past you and frets over Dirk like you’d actually managed to take his eye out. Oh, you just know that Jake is trying to get a piece of him. A shitty, redneck mechanic that he’s putting over his sister’s judgment like a dumbshit! “That is no way to act to those so courteous and so majorly of utter gentlemanliness as to house us! Blimey… bloody… Dirk, I am sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into her—,” 

“It’s alright, Jake,” he cuts your brother off swiftly, giving you a slower consideration. He pushes Jake to the side a little, who is still rambling “sorry”s in bullshit Cockney. You know that Dirk knows you’re out of place. He must know that Dave tied you up like you’re a piece of meat, and he must know that you know that he knows what Dave did to your cousin, and you reckon that he doesn’t like one bit of it. He’s going to kill the girl who knows too much if you don’t do something about it. 

Jake lets himself be pushed aside, stilling babbling like an idiot. You back up, slowly, and thank Christ that Jake failed enough etiquette courses to not know that the handle of the pot shoulder never be facing outwards where someone might walk into it. You eyes flick over to Jake, where he’s just raised his voice excessively. Dirk follows your line of sight with a furrow in his brow, and your face slips from faux surprise to the grit of your teeth. Your hand catches ahold of the handle easily, and in a move you  _ know _ Dirk won’t be expecting, you grab the pot of grits and spill hot grits all over his front. 

You don’t exactly scorch his face, but he is wearing a tank top and there are enough grits that are hot enough to get him to scream choice obscenities and hardly catch himself on the counter with his non-burned arm. He falls to the floor with a semi-cushioned fall and you watch him bite down on the meat of his hand, his arm shaking like a leaf as if practically fries under the heat of the near-boiling grits. You heave a breath, and you try to disregard Jake faltering at Dirk’s side. His left arm is absolutely fucked, and you’re pretty damn sure that he’s gotten second degrees burns. Jake is absolutely speechless for a couple of moment before he starts spewing shit almost incoherently, yanking the towel from the stove’s handle and trying to find a way to help Dirk. 

You haven’t a clue if Dirk is a perpetrator, but you’re not about to stick about to find out. You mindlessly throw the pot into the sink with a loud clatter. Your hands find the counter top and hold on it as watch Dirk squirm, desperately trying to treat the flaking, red skin on his arm as he bites back cries that’d put a toddler to shame. The rap music plays almost humorously upbeat in the background of the unfolding situation. Jake isn’t being considerably gentle with him either, even as he wring dishwater onto his scorching skin. This only serves to get Dirk to make a squeak of pain behind her fingers as he just about keels over. Figures. Jake hardly knows how to trust a scabbed knee. 

Jake turns on you after pressing the washcloth to Dirk’s burnt flesh. He pushes himself up and points a finger at you, eyes blown even wider than they normally are without his glasses. 

“Are you buggering  _ insane!”  _ he yells at you loud enough to wake the entire house, and you cringe at his volume. He jerks away from you, standing defensively against you almost as if he’s protecting Dirk. Some brother he is. “What the dickens is your problem, Jade?” 

“Where’s Jane? John?” you demand of Jake, and his face only hardens like, after seventeen years, he’s finally decided to up and be your big brother. 

“You could’ve killed him!” he shouts at you, though you doubt you really could’ve. Grits slide on the floor under your bare feet and you take a couple of steps back. You don’t deserve to be burned, you’re no rape apologist. 

“We have to get out of here,” you tell him, tersely, eyes darting around the kitchen, “Dammit,  Jake, go find our cousins!” 

“Oh, like Polish popsicles I’m doing that for you, missy!” he charges on in your shouting match, “You just gave this man  _ life threatening injuries!”  _

You forgot how shrill Jake’s voice could get, and how melodramatic he could be. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you’d be able to sense a crisis, but obviously you’re too busy trying to hop on someone’s dick!” your face is almost as red as Dirk’s arm, and you’re practically fuming like a smoke plume. Jake could’ve growled. 

“You have no right to attack him, and then besmirch me with  _ accusations—,”  _

“His brother  _ raped _ John!” you finally scream at him and his face goes slack, “And Dave gave me this fucking shiner, too, jackshit. We’re getting the hell out of here before anyone else goes haywire!” 

He opens his mouth, but his vision falls to Dirk’s unharmed hand on his ankle. 

“Fuckin’… batshit…” he hisses, still in a keeled over state and you kick at Jake’s leg harder than you ever have, like you’re trying to punt a soccer ball across a field. Jake flinches, but Dirk pulls back entirely and you tug Jake away from him before he can even think of touching him again. You’ve always been the older siblings, even to a boy four years your senior. And you’re going to protect him if it kills you. 

“Come on,” you urge him, pushing him out of the kitchen entirely, “Find their car keys.” 

Jake glances at Dirk a final time, and you groan in annoyance, and shove him along so he stumbles on the hardwood floor of the dining room.

"I've got it!" he tells you, annoyance clear in his tone. He sounds sobered. "Go find Jane and John." 

He searches through a woven basket on the table, dumping it out and combing through it. You make sure he’s actively participating in the escape, before you run back upstairs and, with only a flash on hesitance, ram yourself into John’s door with your shoulder. The door bursts open, curtains spilling light into the empty room.

“John?” you call out, hesitantly, lowly. You don’t want Dave to catch you now, The bed is made, primly, and the room smells like sickly sweet air freshener. You swallow thickly, but your throat has gone dry. 

“John?” you try again, making sure to close the door behind yourself so no one dares sneak up on you. You check the closet, look out the windows, trying to keep yourself collected. He’s got to be somewhere, you know this. You rip the sheets from the bed, check the bathroom cabinets, check and recheck the cabinets in order until your breathing has become too heavy for your lungs. 

You’ve lost him. You’ve lost John. There’s so, so many rooms in this house. There are too many rooms in this house.

Something bright blue that sits on the nightstand catches your eyes, and you grab it instinctively.  You turn it in your palms, instantly recognizing it as what must be John’s retainer case. You grip tightens on it marginally and you glance up to the door, cracked open just an inch. 

You didn’t crack the door. 

You throw the container on the bed and shove out and downstairs before you can give it a second thought. Jake isn’t in the dining room. You slide into the kitchen and notice with a sinking stomach that Dirk isn’t on the floor, either. 

“Jake?” you call out, hoarsely. Your steps turn slow once more. You’re the prey now, whatever advantage you have is absolutely gone. You haven’t even seen a house phone, and you’re sure that if you tried to call anyone you’d be shot deader than a doornail. You feel like crying. You’re not a damsel, you know you’re not a damsel, but you’re still a fucking person and you’re terrified as all hells right now, more scared than you’ve ever been in your entire lifetime. 

You make your way into the foyer, and you can see the front door. There’s three locks on it, but you could carve through those with a snap of your fingers. You know you may never get back to your family again, though. You love John, but he’s got less of a chance against the Strider-Lalondes than you do, and it pains you to think about where Jake is and what’s become of. You haven’t seen Jane since dinner last night, and you fear that she may already be beyond saving. They’ll never make it out without you. With a twinge of reluctance and the clenching of your jaw, you ignore the beckoning freedom by turning back into the hallway. “John? Jane?” 

Nothing. No one responds. The hallway is dark, but the den looks promising, and the horse head that hangs above the mantel beckons you. You slowly step into the living room, keeping your hand on the arch as you walk in. The grandfather clock’s ticking does little to soothe your nerves. There’s blankets dispersed about the couch, and from the back of it, you catch wind of a pill bottle. You pick it up, and blink with imploring realization setting in. You instantly shoot back up, not wanting to remain vulnerable, and turn your front to the entrance of the living room. 

Rohypnol. 

You step backward as you read over the bottle, successfully knocking over a beer bottle with your heel. It’s not hard to put two and two together as you hop backward and watch the blankets sob up the alcohol. You whimper. The tears are practically bound to come, now. 

You did so, so well. You thought you had outsmarted these people, and you'd end up with three living relatives and a court date. That is going to happen. You refuse to become an episode of Cold Case. You’re going to get out, with your sibling, with your cousins, and you’re going to get all these disgusting fuckers arrested, they’re all going to jail— 

A cold arm worms it’s way around your neck, constricting. Sharp nails dig into the column of your neck. Your fingers instantly scramble to pull it away from you, gasping on nothing. With a voice that hardly sounds remorseful, Rose sighs, “I’m sorry, dear.” 

She presses something to your mouth, covering your nose until you fall still in her arms. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit? an update? could it be?
> 
> [here's my tumblr so you fuckers can complain and shit](http://luciferslittlekitten.tumblr.com/)

**=== > BE JOHN. **

This room is a lot bigger than the other one. 

Something drips, in the far corner of it. There’s a draft, too. You listen to the soft  _ drip, drip, drip  _ of whatever’s making the noise and you lose your gaze in the corner of the room, almost completely out of it. 

You wonder how long you’ve been down here. 

You’re smart enough to know not to scream, even though your mouth isn’t taped shut or anything. Your hands are bound loosely with ropes that knot intricately but not tight enough to dig into your skin. It’s like you’ve been tied up and held captive with excruciating care. You feel suspiciously clean, too, like you’ve used one of Jane’s bath bombs and taken a particularly refreshing dip in the tub. But you really don’t know.

All you know is that last night, he’d pressed you close to him and his arms held tight around your midsection all night long. Your feet had kind of shuffled around in the blankets, your head pressed close to his chest as he mumbled incoherent sounds in his sleep and tugged you closer and closer like you were his teddy bear. You don’t know when he redressed you, and you don’t remember when he’d washed you, but you do know that he won’t be gone forever.

Something lonesome and scared claws at your stomach, and you swallow. Your family is there, at the back of your mind, as you shiver in the drowsy room. You know they must be looking for you, they must be getting concerned by now. If Jade had overtaken Dave, and if she told your sister and Jake about how these conditions were, and if they managed to find you then maybe you could escape. Your fingers hold tight together in a bind, your hands neat in your lap, as you try to find an entrance as to where Dave could come in. Maybe it wouldn’t even be Dave at all, you decide, maybe it would be one of his sibling or one of your family members to save the day (but you don’t want to get too hopeful). 

You’re not scared. You’re just tired. The kind of tired that makes you wonder where all your excess energy is from a good night’s rest. The kind of tired that leaves you thinking, fuzzily, although your brain is still hazy. You’re scared for Jake and Jane and Jade, but you’re not scared for yourself. Your breath comes in shallows sighs, your eyesight is a little bleary without your glasses, and when you anxiously wind your hands the rope burns around your wrists. 

You try not to think about what’s happening because the gravity of it all is going to crush you. You’ve been… so many things you don’t even want to think about. This would be so much easier to stomach and continue on if you’d been fucked with by some stranger, and not some guy who pretends to be your friend, holds you like a lover, tries to uphold some holier-than-thou attitude about being a fucking creep. 

You take a second to revise your plan. He’s done enough already, and with every shift, the cuts on your thighs are breaking apart. You wonder if they’ll ever scab over. You glance around yourself before hitching your leg up at the knee and pushing it back. You pull the elastic of your underwear out of the way, stained with a fair amount of blood. Your fingers join the party, stains of red along their tips, as you drag them over the initials cut into your skin. 

_ D.S.  _

You bite down on your tongue. You slowly let your leg down and press your thighs together. This was not a preferable situation. This was the opposite of a preferable situation. He’s branded you like he thinks he owns you. Like you’re cattle or something. You know you should be upset, but you’re tired, and you hurt everywhere, and you need something or someone and you could almost cry from how much you don’t want to be alone. 

You wish Jane were here to hold you and tell you that she loves you and shush you when you inevitably cry. Jane never cries unless she’s really, really upset. You guess it’s up to stupid genes that the girls in your family have always been stronger than the guys, like how Jade’s three inches taller than Jake and how Jane has a stronger stomach than you could ever imagine. Gore doesn’t phase her. Things phase Jane when they phase you because she cares about your supposedly delicate sensibilities. You’re hardly a man at all, you realize in this instant. Jade’s more of a man than you, and she’s a  _ girl. _ For god’s sake, you’ve been stripped of any and all masculinity since you got…

Something a fair ways awake creak, and you shrink into yourself like a frightened animal. You feel small and frail and weak and disappointed in yourself for looking so meek at the feet of the one person you should be standing up to. You cast your eyes downward to the concrete that’s leaving patches of red on your knees, and you try to act like you haven’t heard anything at all. You pretend you don’t feel threatened by him, but the idea of him even returning is enough to make you vomit up the nothing in your stomach.

You’ve learned a lesson or two on faulty hope in your day, from Jake, who seems to think that staying upbeat no matter the occasion is a sure-fire way to a happier life. Which, to you, sounds like absolutely trash advice now that you reflect on it. The possibility of someone coming to save you is minuscule and nearly out of the picture entirely. You know Dave is going to want more than just a cheap fuck from you eventually, and the longer you rot down here, the most anxious he’s going to get. And, in tow, he’s going to feel more in-control of you and in-demand of whatever you have to offer.

You wonder if Nowheresville, Texas has a police force. You doubt it. You suppose that’s why they even live here in the first place. 

You know that you need to get to your car before they decommission it, but if you try and run, you’ll undeniably get caught. You don’t know where you are, so chances are you’ll run right into whoever is strolling the halls. And if you do escape, and they notice, you know the chances are high that they’ll kill the rest of your family. You have to escape with everyone for everyone to survive, and that’s nearly impossible, and it’s particularly impossible from your vantage point. 

You just have to hope that Jane or one of your cousins can manage to get an upper hand against these crazy people because you’re most definitely out of the running. Your escape plan can’t kick off until you get Dave to buy that you’ve been totally broken in, which means he’ll get sloppy, and which means you can get out. That could take ages, though, which means that is absolutely last-ditch. You know someone can get you out before then, you promise yourself Jade can cook something up in time, so this is only precautionary. 

There’s another creak. Your mind kicks to attention and your head jerks up. The thud is constant like footsteps, and near get louder with every second. You urgently try to locate the door so you’re not caught off-guard. You continue to tell yourself you’re not scared, but fuck it, when you hear the whistling tune and the jingle of keys your stomach turns to ice. 

Dave strolls in with heavy work boots, and every inch of him, from his jeans to his dirty wifebeater to the flannel hanging over his shoulder, looks faintly worn. His top has a ring of sweat on the neckline that suggests, more than anything, he’s been doing some heavy work.

“Hey, dollface,” he says to you softly, tossing his flannel onto an old antique of a chair, and you try to make yourself look even smaller. He sighs at your lacking cooperation, and he takes a few easy steps over to you. You squeeze your eyes shut as he kneels down to tap the side of your face, almost like he’s trying to wake you up. “Hey, babe, anyone home?” 

“Leave me alone,” you tell him, voice faint, and he only chuckles like you’ve said something particularly amusing. He ruffles your hair and stands back up. 

“Sorry I had to move you,” he says, and he sounds almost genuine. You know not to fall for any cunning bullshit, though. No captor of yours could ever, ever be considered kind. You’d be willing to accept anyone’s company but his, and the only reason you were letting him lay a finger on you is for fear of losing your own. You didn’t want him to make good on the promise to amputate you, so obeying him until you could upstage him was the working plan.

“S’okay,” you whisper under your breath, but you hardly think he hears you. He hops up onto a rickety wooden table a couple of feet away from you, and you only know this by watching his feet from where your head is drooped. 

“We were busy if that shit ain’t obvious,” he snorts like it’s another joke, “Farm life’s no joke, sweetheart.” 

You want to tell him to knock it off with the pet names, ‘cause you don’t feel like entertaining him, but your voice isn’t working right. He talks in your absence, anyways. “Shit’s hard. Bro’s been working me to the goddamn bone like I’m a fuckin’ dog,” he says  _ this,  _ of all things, completely unlike a joke. He is genuinely bitter, and he says “bro” like he’s left an unsavory taste in his mouth.

“Fuck, I gotta,” he mumbles, and he pats himself down a moment, “Shit, doll, you don’t even know how much I fucking hate doing all the dirty wor-  _ shit,  _ there we go.”

You hear the hiss and spark of him lighting up, and mumbling along with the cigarette between his teeth.

“See, ‘cause Dirk got all sorts of mad—,” he pauses to blow out a billow of smoke, “—because your floozy sister was bein’ batshit—,” another breath, “And he blamed  _ me  _ for not containin’ her ass properly,” he shakes his head, murmuring low under his breath around the cigarette until he speaks directly to you, “You believe that shit? Ain’t my fault the broad’s smarter than him.” 

So Jade overpowered at least Dirk, which is enough for you to feel a little more confident in yourself. You raise your chin a little, but he’s staring somewhere beyond you. He mindlessly spins a tiny, glass shot glass around with his free hand, the cigarette caught between his two fingers. He taps it out on the rim and presses his cigarette down into the glass like it’s his ash tray. He glances back down at you and you keep your head in place. He smiles at you. 

“You’re cute, sugar,” he says, and your face sours immediately. His smile widens, briefly, then falls when he sighs again. 

“I’m lucky I got you,” he tells you, honestly, “‘Cause God knows my family ain’t doing shit to keep me happy. You’re already being so good, even if you’re kinda quiet. We’ll fix it.”

You don’t want to be fixed at all. “I’m not quiet,” you blurt, and he blinks at you as you begin to ramble, “I’m not quiet at all, I’m just really tired. Aren’t you tired? You’ve been working all day. You should probably rest so you don’t pass out or something. What have you been doing all day?” 

He gives you a curious look. You can see he’s repressing a grin. Obviously, you’ve satisfied him and he’s satisfied himself. “Had to take care of some things. Some people.”

Your iced stomach twists. He couldn’t be talking about taking care of people… like that? 

“People?” you repeat, trying your best to sound nonchalant.

“Take a guess,” he says “See, people who get in the way have to be put in their place. You’re lucky I saved you, kitten. You’re lucky you’re just so damn gorgeous. Are you hungry yet, baby?” 

You could throw up. Your worst suspicions have just been confirmed and it feels horrible to know that your plan of escape is the only plan, that you’re the one that will be leaving. You get a tremble in your shoulders, and you hate looking weak in front of this fucking monster, but you can’t help it. They’re dead. Your entire family is gone, and it’s all because of you. 

Dave pushes himself back up from the table and sits across from you on the concrete, splayed out like he owns the damn place. “C’mon, baby, look at me with them pretty eyes, would you?”

You, stubbornly, keep your eyes downcast. You feel tears welling up in the corners. Dave reaches out to you and you shove back abruptly, drawing your legs to your chest. You look at him for a split second, and near instantly, you fall into sobs. Fuck it, fuck being strong and fuck being some mastermind. You’re alone and you’re terrified and you’ve nowhere to go. 

“C’mon, lovely,” he tells you, gentle as can be, “You’re gonna be just fine.” 

You tremble as he reaches out to you, but you’re compliant when he pulls you into his lap. His arms are slack around you, and your face buries itself in his shoulder as he holds you and you hate how much you need this. You’re going to get the fuck out of this hellhole, both for yourself and for your family. You’re not breaking this easy. No way in  _ hell  _ are you breaking at all.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys im sorry for doing SHIT like all of april?? i hope these back-to-back chapters are cool repayment for that. 
> 
> [here's my tumblr if u wanna chat me up](http://luciferslittlekitten.tumblr.com/)

**=== > BE JANE. **

It seems that Jane’s a little tied up, being asleep and such things. Moving along.

 

**=== > BE ROXY.**

You are now Roxy Strider-Lalonde. 

Also known as the czar of family brunches. No one else calls it brunch except you, but that’s whatever. You’re cooking up crazy heaps of eggs and bacon and sausage, pancakes that are so small they’re bordering on cute. You’ve been cooking for your family ever since your mother, bless her heart, passed on. And even so, she was never a very good cook. When she was drunk she was a wreck in the kitchen, and when she was sober she was too hungover to try. You learned pretty quickly how to do things yourself, with help from some books and pals. 

It doesn’t help that everyone overlooks the throwing down you do in the kitchen. You haven’t gotten any help in that regard since just this week, with them Crocker-Harleys or whatever coming in and raising a storm. And you’d really liked the family too, so it was just a lot of dumb reverse luck that your family had to go and tear them all apart. It’s what happens, though. You’ve done it before, whenever people pass through. Rose says your neck of the woods is totally cursed from all those dead slaves and rich white folks you descended from. For reference, and for elitism, the Striders on the slave side, and the Lalondes on the rich white folks side. 

But that’s just her witchy mumbo-jumbo talking. Truth is, you could care less about curses and the Civil War. You’d been stuck down here all your damn life, same four walls, same three siblings, same two neighbors. You weren’t even allowed to speak to your neighbors anymore ‘cause Dirk was too fond of taking matters into his own hands and messing things up by his own damn self. All you did was business trades with them now, which suited the rest of your family just fine, but not you. 

You think you’re the only person you know who ain’t entirely insane or something. Dirk’s been crazy since day one, even though you love your brother and would never say it, the guy is straight off his rocker. Rose isn’t crazy so much as she is an asinine crazy-dedicated pain in the ass. And Dave is just Dave. Dirk’s prodigy is what he’s always been called, even when your parents still hung around, he was always Dirk’s. So you can only guess your little bro was influenced a little bit by Dirky. 

But, today, Dirk’s been less of the head of the household and more of a mope. He’s been laying around with his bad arm all dressed up while you and Rose whispered about Jade, and while Dirk murmured things about Jake. Jade was wherever Rose had hung her up, and Jake was down in Dirk’s neck of the woods for when he got better. Poor kid, really, ‘cause when Dirk gets upset he takes it out on everyone around him. You can only guess Jake’s gonna get a real kick outta Dirk’s boiling anger. 

The house has been kind of a wreck, really, with Rose on nurse duty and Dave working outside. You’d spent a good while cleaning up grits from all over the floor, Rose had been tending to Jade and Jake and Dirk’s newly-fucked-up arm. She’d been more so fawning over Jade’s sensibilities, though, which Dirk wasn’t taking all that well to. You’ll be the first, maybe second to Rose, to say that the Jade broad has serious guts. You’ve never had someone your family invited in try and fight back so brashly. The last one who gave that a shot ended up blind with all his teeth knocked out. Of course, since Rose had already asserted herself over Jade, that wouldn’t be happening. Rose has told you she liked keeping girls pretty like they’re meant to be. 

Rose is a little creepy, but she’s your little sis, and it ain’t like you can choose your family. Besides, you’re no stranger to liking pretty girls. 

You pile up a plate for Jane, for when she awakens from her slumber and set it aside like it’s a pie cooling. You toss bowls of breakfast food onto the table since you’re not nice enough to make everyone their own plate, and holler for your family like you’re the damn dinner bell. Dave’s out working since Dirk’s got a freebie for a few weeks with that arm of his, and Rose never leaves the house unless she’s trying to pull some witchcraft bullshit. 

You slide plates onto everyone’s placemats.  You turn for forks and knives, counting out four of each and setting a pair aside for Jane. When you spin back around, you jump and nearly drop all the silver. Rose is sitting in her seat at the foot of the table, sipping from a glass of wine that you most certainly didn’t pour and which is most certainly inappropriate for an eleven-in-the-morning brunch. 

More on that creepy note. Rose has been creeping around like a ghost since she was a little kid, disappearing and reappearing like she’s got some sorta supernatural aide. It was a curious thing to find a barely one-year-old baby out of the crib and crawling around your father’s strictly forbidden study, which was supposed to be locked at night. Dirk had gotten the blame that night, which was the norm in your household since you were a sweet girl and Dave and Rosey were too little to do any of that on their own. But you’ve always had a sneaking suspicion Rosey could do a lotta oddball things on her own.

“Good morning, Roxy,” she says cordially, and you hate how prim and proper she always is with you. You roll your eyes and parrot back, “Morning, Rosey.” 

You glance back into the kitchen, trying to see out the window right above the sink. “Y’know if Dave’s still out there?” you ask her, and she shrugs. 

She watches you, sipping her wine, as you pass out silverware. When you reach her end of the table, you say, “Should you be drinking this early?” 

“Would you rather I drink this late at night?” 

“Maybe at dinner?” you tell her, rounding it off in a question so you don’t seem pushy. You cross your arms over your chest, “Making healthy habits, Rosey.” 

“You’re not one to speak to me about healthy alcohol consumption,” she says and takes another sip. Her makeup doesn’t smudge off on the glass, and you envy her for it. It only adds to the case Rose secretly is a ghost of the dead twin sister Dave probably ate in the womb. 

“But at eleven in the morning?” you press and she only takes a prolonged sip until you drop the issue with a sigh. You turn back into the kitchen to set the silverware over Jane’s un-syruped pancakes and do the dishwashing shuffle. You’ll inevitably wash the damn dishes because your siblings are unhelpful sacks of shit, but it’s whatever. You weren’t about to force Jane to help you again. 

“You should fetch Dave before he works himself to death out there,” you note, sliding the frying pan into the sink, “Lord knows how much Dirk ain’t doing in light of his new disability.” 

Rose says nothing, and you lean up and over to grab the syrup before heading back to the table. You nearly give yourself a heart attack for the second time that day when you find Dirk sitting at the head of the table, arm appropriately dressed, looking both tired and smug as hell somehow. 

“You two gotta quit doin’ that shit!” you insist with a stomp of your foot, “You’re gonna make me piss my damn pants!”

“You were shit talkin’, didn’t wanna interrupt,” Dirk explains with a shrug, “Where the hell’s Dave even at?” 

“Out back. Perhaps, now, with John,” Rose says, tapping the side of her fork against her plate, “He’s very fond of that boy, I will say this much. I had a conversation with him just the other night. Nothing like the boy Dave had.. two years ago? Oh, and just his age, too. If I believed in such fickle things, I’d call it fate.” 

“Ain’t like we always get the four-for-four combo!” you agree ecstatically, “That was 'bout three years by now. Y’all ‘member the last kiddos we had around here, couple months or so ago? God, they couldn’t have been more than fourteen.” 

“I remember,” Dirk says. You make a ‘blergh’ sound that gets Rose to chuckle and Dirk to scowl over at you. 

“Of course you’d remember the little kids, Dirk,” Rose tells him, only halfway teasing because Rose has never really liked Dirk or his very particular interests, “That’s just right up your alley.” 

“Accusations are really just your thing, ain’t they?” he grumbles, leaning back in his chair as Rose takes a sip of her wine. “Can’t we just eat this damn food without Dave? Ain’t like that jackass is ever around anyways.”

“And have my kid brother starve?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “Uh-uh. We ain’t eating a single damn bite until Dave’s ass is sat down right there.” 

For being Dirk’s special guy since he was born, your older brother has no patience when it comes to Dave. Dave can be a real pushover half the time, letting Dirk do this and that and the other. Even Rose gets a word in, oftentimes. You think Dave just doesn’t like causing any trouble, and that’s why he likes spending time with people who pass through who give him very little trouble. Though, he’s not always lucky. Everyone has it in them to squirm a little.

You point to Dave’s chair with a fork, across from yours on the side, when the front door bangs open and you startle. You drop the fork to the ground with a clank and scurry to pick it up as Dave stomps inside, and Rose calls out, “Shoes off, Dave!” 

He takes them off, begrudgingly, and slides into his assigned seat. You’d been sitting in the same chair since you were four years old, and the same position at the table your whole life. Rose and Dirk moved to the ends in the absence of your parents, though, ‘cause they thought they were something special. No one thought much of you, for sure, and no one thought of Dave as much besides a hardheaded labor force. You and Dave were real similar in a lot of ways. For being the black sheep of your family and for being the ones everyone doted on and picked on like you were babies. 

“How’s John?” Rose asks as Dave seats himself, slick with sweat and dirty hair that needed to be re-dyed. You’d do it for him whenever you got the free time, and whenever that hair dye shipped in from wherever-the-hell Asia. 

“Thinks his family’s dead,” Dave says, helping himself to making his plate. Normally, you’d reprimand him, but he’s been working all day and if he wants to hog out on bacon, then you’re gonna damn well let the kid.

“That’s some brutal lie to be tellin’,” Dirk says, and sees it fit to now pile his own plate high, “You gonna let that drag on? That ain't smart. You're off your game here, Dave, ‘specially since you like the boys to fall head over heels for you.” 

“I didn’t tell him any kinda lie,” Dave snaps defensively, “And I don't care if they like me or not, shut the fuck up, Dirk. You don't know shit ‘cause all you do is cut shit to pieces.”

“Hey, don't back talk me,” Dirk warns him, “Watch your mouth, kiddo.”

“Whatever,” Dave grinds out, “He believed it ‘cause he wanted to, I guess, and it ain’t like they’s gonna be alive much longer anyhow.” 

“They’re,” Rose corrects quietly because the little miss has been reading grammar books since she was three years old. Even though she and Dave are twins, she learned to read just about five years before Dave did. Not because Dave was slow or nothing, but because reading was a girl’s thing. Your mama made sure the both of y’all were literate. She was a smart woman when she wasn’t hammered outta her mind.

“Can it,” Dave replies smoothly, trying his best to keep his cool. He never takes it well when Dirk tries to ride his ass for something. “He’s just easy. Y’know the last time we had—,” 

“The college kids,” you finally deem the kitchen put-together enough for now, and you slide into your seat across from Dave, “They should have just gone to Florida like the rest’a their kind.” 

“The one I had then? God, he was perfect, but the…” he trails off and shakes his head, “Y’all should’ve heard him yack. ‘W-when they f-find you’ and ‘My daddy’s g-gonna sue y-you’ with his damn stutter and shit. He looked a lot better when he shut the fuck up.” 

“I told you I’d cut out his tongue for you,” Dirk says, and then stuffs his mouth with scrambled eggs. 

“And I told you I didn’t wanna mess him up.”

“We don’t need to bring up old catches,” Rose reminds them testily, “Thank you for breakfast, Roxy.”

Dave echoes similar thanks through a full mouth, and you roll your eyes. “Ain’t nothing.” 

The four of you proceed to eat in a stretching silence. Your family has never been one for close conversations and uplighting messages, you can say that much. You’ve never really seen a family quite like the one from  _ The Wonder Years,  _ which you’ve watched and rewatched on your worn out VCR. Your family was quiet, and easy to maneuver around. You used to sneak out the big window in your old bedroom just ‘cause you could, not because you’d get stopped if you went out the front. Your mama let you hem your skirts as high as you wanted, and she helped you do it. Your daddy was either working with your brothers or out in town doing menial things. 

You don’t know if any of you really know how people work. You’ve heard the stories and the tales, but the only real reason you know what half the stuff you babble on about is because of your television and video tapes. 

You were your family’s happy medium. Rose knew too much about how people thought, and that made her dangerous. Dirk knew too much about what people felt, externally, and that made  _ him  _ dangerous. Dave didn’t understand hardly any of it, and that made him dangerous. You? Well, you’re just the czar of brunch, with too many feelings about one too many pretty girls that your family likes to cut to shreds. 

And, if nothing else, you could all agree on the idea that small table-talk was pointless. 

Of course, that doesn’t stop it from being had. Dave swallows his food and gives Dirk a long, long look. It goes on for so long, with you and Rose both aware of it, you wonder if Dirk can feel those eyes burning into his skull. After a prolonged silence, Dave says, “Aren't you?”

Dirk’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. You blink over at Dave in confusion, even, but Rose seems enlightened as always about the question fragment. Dirk’s fork touches his plate with a small clink. “Pardon?” 

“Aren't you grateful for breakfast?” Dave clarifies, “Ain't you gonna thank Roxy?” 

You feel like covering your face. You really wish Dave didn't insist on fighting for your honor, especially when it was secretly for his own gain. He loved having reasons to knock heads with Dirk like a couple of bucks. You swallow, and in light of the brewing debate, Rose takes a sip of her wine. She’s going to fill some entertainment quota, but you just don’t like seeing your family get thrust into screaming matches. It’s even worse when it’s with Dirk, ‘cause you remember the days when you could hear your daddy screaming at him from across the damn house. 

“I don't think I'm liking your attitude, Dave,” Dirk tells him. He sure sounds like your daddy, now. 

“Yeah? I don't fucking like yours either, Dirk,” Dave tells him, rising a little from his seat. Dirk only reclines in his, kingly in his stance, and he regards Dave with an unmatched coolness. Your brothers are both good at keeping stoic, but Dirk has always been better. Dave is too arrogant and hot-headed to steel himself, especially when he gets really mad. But Dirk is always calm and collected.

You almost want to say something, but your brothers are in the shit now.

“You don't give a shit about what she does for your useless ass?” Dave demands, raising his voice, “Don't you give a single fuck about how hard she works for this family?”

Dave is hardly talking about you, and this you know. Rose knows it, too, and if Dirk ain’t bright enough to realize it he’s gonna be upset either way. Dave's talking about himself through you. 

You remember when your little twin siblings were born. Dirk was seven, you were six, and the kiddos were the quietest damn babies you’d ever not heard. You spent a lot of time with Rose, but Dave had always looked up to Dirk unconditionally like Dirk looked up to your daddy. You remember the time Dave had spent calling Dirk ‘daddy’ instead of your real father. Which was funny to the lot of you, really, ‘cause for a while that shit was charming. And then Dave turned four, and five, and six, and seven, and he kept doing it… 

After a while, Dave quit that shit, but Dirk didn’t stop doting on him. Dave, however, stopped letting it happen. He hid behind you and Rose and your mama and let Dirk handle your daddy on his own. You guess that’s what shoved a wedge between the two of them. You’d give anything to have them close again! You’d give anything to have your family back together again, really, but Dirk doesn’t like if when your beliefs go against his so, mostly, you keep your mouth shut. 

“ _ I  _ work harder for this family than anyone in the goddamn room,” Dirk tells him, “You’re not the man of the household, kiddo.” 

Dave’s eyes narrow into slits. “Yeah? I’m not? I wouldn’t say you are, either, seeing as how you came into the position.” 

Dirk snaps to full attentiveness. Rose picks up her wine glass as his fist comes down on the table with a loud noise that makes you jump even if you did know it was coming. Dave doesn’t so much as flinch, he just stares at Dirk with the same coolness. He’s won. 

“Upstairs,” Dirk tells him, “Now.”

“You can’t fuckin’ tell me what to do!” Dave exclaims, incredulously. Dirk draws himself up and points to the staircase. 

“Now.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Yeah? Maybe so. Y’want me to make good on that promise of mine?” Dirk asks him, and Rose’s eyes immediately land on you. You shake your head frantically. Rose is the biggest gossip, and whenever she doesn’t know some family drama, she immediately assumes you do. You have no idea what brewed the rivalry between Dirk and Dave, and you have no idea what Dirk’s been holding against Dave, ‘cause it seems like it changes every week. 

Dave doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then he pushes back from the table dramatically, sending the table askew a couple of inches, and he goes upstairs. Dirk watches him retreat, and then he seats himself again. Rose sets her wine glass back down on the table, and Dirk picks up his silver and eats his forkful of eggs. 

He takes a drink of orange juice, and very softly, he nods to you and says, “Thank you for breakfast, Roxy.”

 

**=== > BE JANE. **

You are now Jane Crocker, wide awake in Roxy’s bed, and listening to the clamoring of footsteps down the hallway. You reach for your glasses on the side table and push them up the bridge of your nose before you swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand. You pull down the string of Roxy’s lamp to illuminate the room just a little, and you realize Roxy is no longer in bed. You suppose she’s just gotten up to do her morning duties, her face routine or something. 

You cross the room and very briefly put your ear to the door. You then take a hold on the handle to open it just a smidge to see into the hallway. There’s nothing there, and so you close the door and turn back into the room. You lick your lips and come to the sudden realization that they’re still lipsticked, and you’ve still got a full face of makeup. You sigh, hoping your skin doesn’t react horribly to this, and you make your way over to Roxy’s vanity. You dig through her bursting drawers and scourge through the countertop covered in bags of makeup and astray products to find nothing to wipe it off. You kneel down a little to check the lowest drawers. One is empty. The other, which you don’t hold much hope for, has a book in it. 

You blink down at it. Small and green-pink and worn beyond belief. So much so that the pink is more of a salmon and the green is more of a smudgy brownish shade. You look around, feeling a little bad for invading Roxy’s privacy, and take the book. You flip it open to find it’s a scrapbook, and on the very first page, a sweet little message is inscribed and followed by a horde of small drawings and cute stickers. 

_TO MY VERY BESTEST FRIEND:_

thanks for giving me some of the best times of my entire life!

You flick through the pages but give it little thought. You return the book quickly. You’re nosy, but this feels much too personal. You close the drawer before you stand and catch yourself on the edge of the countertop right as the bedroom door swings open.  
“Roxy, oh—,” you start, turning to her, but you instead find Rose standing in the entrance like a vampire waiting to be invited in. 

“Jane,” she says, angling her head, “I’d like to speak with you. Only if it’s no trouble, of course.”

You blink, and then smile and try not to look nervous. “Oh, of course!” 

She smiles. “Marvelous. Come along, dear.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI GUESS WHAT IM OUT OF SCHOOL NOW WHICH (HOPEFULLY) MEANS MORE FREQUENT UPDATESSSS  
> [here's my tumblr!!! please yell at me!!!!!](http://luciferslittlekitten.tumblr.com/)

**=== > BE JAKE. **

You’re half-bleary, but not out-of-it enough to not recognize the blinding pain in your cranium. Dirk’s good arm fits well and snug around you, holding you flush against him, back at the wall. In a half-dazed state, you’re left to flounce and struggle under his, trying to arm from around you or his hand from over your mouth. But your movements are sluggish, and Jade’s footsteps are fuzzy clunks in your ears. She calls your name, and you try to jerk yourself backward into the wall, to try and make a noise to alert her to _leave,_ but Dirk‘s leg keeps the backs of your from touching the wall.  

Dirk had hit you over the head with something hard enough to make you slack. Your stomach still aches, you’re still hungover or tipsy from last night and you’re starting have serious suspicions-- suspicions that perhaps have come too little and too late--  about what Dirk had intoxicated you with. You start to lick his hand, the burnt one, and try to bite his fingers or buck away from him but he only shoves you deeper into the crook of his elbow and the headlock gets even tighter.

 You’re such an idiot, the biggest idiot, you should _listen_ to your sister. You didn’t listen, and now you’re all going to die, and you don’t even have anything to barter away to get yourself out of this mess. You could almost give up just now, let Dirk hold onto you while they murder your entire family, and try to give him something he’ll appreciate more than your blood. But you have nothing except your pluck to dish out, and it’s going to dim out sooner or later, and if you don’t have Jade there’s really no reason to be brave anymore.

You twist yourself around, your movements still feel like shaky and unsteady, and you rear your head back and try to throw him off. But Dirk is taller than you and much steadier than you, so you get nothing but a worsened headache and a threatening pressure against your throat.

You can see Rose come down the hallway, shaking a bottle of something before she tips it over a washcloth. Jade creeps down the hall on the opposite side of the sitting room, and you can hear her call your name again. The front door is _right there_ and you know you should want her to leave, but you’d be lying if you said that you didn’t want her to save you first. You can hear your sister’s footsteps nearing as she creeps through the sitting room, from the back, and wearily investigates. You fear Rose has natural quaintness on her side, though, and she kicks off her shoes and folds the washcloth over itself, flashes Dirk a small, encouraging look, and then slips into the room.

You whimper behind Dirk’s palm and he doesn’t make a single movie that indicates he’s noticed. It’s silent for a few, awful moments, and then for a split second, there’s a garbled cry. You surge up, arching your back against Dirk’s hold until it is silent again and you refuse to stop struggling. Dirk eventually sees you as too much trouble, and he lets go of you so sharply you stumble and fall, unsteady on your feet. Immediately, you scream bloody murder until Dirk hops ass over backward to shut you up, dropping to your level to clamp his hand over your mouth and hold your head in his hands so tightly he begins to shake. His fingernails dig into your cheeks, and his hand threads in your hair to yank your head up.  

He looks like he’s about to go off on you, but his voice is calm and low and collected. “Jake,” he tells you, sounding for the life of him like the scariest thing you’ve ever heard, “If you scream again, I’ll cut out your tongue.”

You whimper again, eyes blown wide, and your chest heaves with effort.  

“Nod if you understand me,” he tells you, and you nod so urgently that his grip on your head tightens again to still you. Dirk’s face remains still as he stares at you until Rose slips a hand over his shoulder, and pats it.

“Let him go,” she tells him, “You’ve scared him enough, dear.”

Dirk straightens up, leaving you a huddled mess on the floor. Rose’s arm slips from his shoulder to link through his arm, and the pair of them consider you like you’re something that’s about to be auctioned off. You hide your face in your knees and press your back against the wall. Dirk snorts, “Yeah, I can see that much.”  

“I say we don’t scar him yet, brother. For the Lord’s sake, and for yours. You get bored of worn-out things. Unless you don’t want him getting any older on you?” There’s a shuffle and a laugh, tall and regal. “Oh, you know I’m _joking.”_

“Hell you are,” Dirk mutters and Rose laughs again, almost fake-sounding in tone, and then tops it with a sigh.

“You’d better take care of your little fighter before Jane and Jade wake up,” Rose tells him and wrings the rag in her hand. You press your back against the wall and stare at her, and she just tucks the cloth into Dirk’s palm. “I’m going to hang up Miss Harley. You tend to her brother, and then we’ll regroup for breakfast.”

Rose’s retreating hand gives Dirk an affirming pat on the shoulder, and then she turns heel and stalks back into the sitting room. Dirk shakes out the rag, and you tremble in your boots, pressing harder back against the wall. “Don’t,” you say as Dirk kneels, finally finding your voice “Please, Strider, don’t. I’ll go. I’ll walk with you. Wherever you want me to go.”

Dirk gives you a long look. “That’s it?” he asks after a silent couple moments, and you nod hurriedly, “You’re just going to give up this easily?”

“Yes,” you tell him, “I am. Please, don’t hurt me.”

His eyes lock with yours, and for a second, you can deduce he’s greatly upset for some reason. You begin to relax in hopes that he’s not going to put you out, but then his face hardens. “You’re spineless,” he tells you.

And then you wake up.

You rub the bleariness out of your eyes. The ache in the back of your head is gone, and the soreness in your body is ten times revived. Your back is already to a wall, on a creaky twin bed that could quite possibly collapse with just how ancient it looks. Your arms loops around your drawn-up knees and you entice the idea of trying to run, but you know Dirk is trusting you not to and although you don’t exactly want to respect his authority in the midst of this bang-up problem, you don’t want him to be mad. It’s much preferable to deal with him while he thinks you’re going to listen than deal with him if you blatantly go against him. Jade will wake up, and she’ll best Rose, and she’ll save you. Jade always fishes you out of particularly deep-dug pickles. You just have to trust in her.

“Good morning, princess.” 

You jump out of your skin, scrambling on the mattress as you turn to face Dirk. He’s sitting in a fold-out chair at the foot of your bed, watching you with a sort of pleasure you don’t know how to name. The way a child would watch a pet in a cage, fondly, with a certain sense of superiority.

 “Good morning,” you parrot back, softly, staring at him even though you know you should look down.

 “I didn’t think I’d need to tie you up,” he tells you, “I think you’ll listen.”

Slowly, you nod. Of course, you’ll listen. You’ve got nothing to do but listen to him, and even though you wish you had the courage to stand up to him and fight this, you simply bring your hand to your mouth and gnaw on the sleeve of your flannel.

“Good,” he murmurs, watching you considerately. After a few quiet moments of nothing happening, he comments, “I’m gonna hate to ruin you.”

Your chest rises and stays, and your wide eyes blink. He just holds your stare steadily and then he leans back a little in his folding chair, “You deserved to know that if nothin’ else.”  

You didn’t think Dirk was very scary when you’d first met him. He was different and interesting, and hell be damned if you didn’t find yourself attracted to boys who were particularly odd fellas. But wanting to take a bite of Dirk and having several bites actively taken from you were two very different things, and you didn’t want to be locked up in somebody’s house for the rest of your life, however short the rest of your life may be.

Oh, you’re not going to think about that now. You’ll think about that tomorrow. 

Dirk stands up, and you immediately shy away. You don’t know what in hell he’s going to do, or what he has planned, so you’re a bit skeptic of every one of his motions at this point. He keeps his eyes on you, and your thoughts immediately go to the worse, and you press your thighs together and stare back at him as level as you can. You’re not a fan of being rubbed up against by a partner of increasingly creepy disposition. You really don’t want Dirk to come in close to you anymore; a far, far cry of what you’d have wanted yesterday.

“I’m not gonna touch you,” he says, his eyebrows drawing together, “Doesn’t do me any good. ‘Sides, you’ll probably ask me to come onto you sooner or later. If you were expecting it, chill.”

You should relax, but you don’t. You keep yourself tensed and ready to respond to any wandering fingers because you’ve had one too many guys try and pull fast ones on you, and you’re not any sort of taker. Well, not usually, when you know you’ve got the upper hand. But this is different.

“Then what do you want?” you find yourself asking, “What-- What do you _want_ from me?”  

He gives you a considerate look. “Company,” he tells you after a minute, “‘A lot of my company tries to leave. It’s pretty damn rude. _I_ wasn’t ever allowed to leave the farm, ain’t nobody else leavin’, either.”  

“I’m stuck here forevermore?” you whisper incredulously. It’s mostly to yourself, but he nods along anyways, tapping his foot on the concrete floor.  

“Until I get bored,” he says, and that strikes your darker interests. You look at him and it takes a minute for him to glance up and meet your gaze. When he does, he continues, “You’re here until I get bored.”

“And what happens when you get bored?” you ask him, mostly for show, because you’ve already worked out the gist of it and your stomach sinks.

“Don’t let me get bored,” he warns instead of answering you.

You’re not a boring presence. You’re great with people, most times. There are only two situations where you get awful closeted and cagey. When you’re in a room with too many people and when you feel cramped and like you’re just on the brink of suffocation, and when you’re in a room with two little people, when there's nothing and no one to bail you out of awkward conversation and silence. Now, you think, is more severe than any of your previous fears. This is between two subjects of much heavier merit than awkward laughing or awkward silence. You’ve never been struck with such a shell-shocking sort of realization.

Dirk’s staring at you. He’s checking you out, though you feel less flattered and flustered about it and more like a slab of meat on sale. He’s studying you, almost, with a considerate look stretched across his features. You hold your legs closer to you chest, and you stare back at him over your knees.  

“Stay there,” he tells you, and you do. Your eyes follow Dirk as he crosses the room. It must be a washroom because he’s got a washer and a dryer and a hamper full of laundry that he passes by. He stops short and kicks over the basket. Clothes spill out from it all over the concrete floor and you look at him, confused.

“Wash it for me,” he tells you, and then he steps over the clothing, “I’ll be back.” 

You watch him retreat back up the stairs, and you hear him lock the door behind himself. You stare at the pile of laundry, swallow hard, and then tip your head back against the wall. As if you’re going to be his maid.

You scope out the room. Small, quaint, freezing cold. There are a couple of shelves hanging over the laundry machine, and there are a splattering of cabinets on the other side, too. You suppose it could be a pantry or something like that. The wall the bed is stuck against is shamefully empty, with Dirk’s fold out chair the only companion to the rickety old metal frame and stale mattress. You shiver a little bit and close in on yourself. If you had a little less pride you’d tug on that red sweater from the dirty laundry pile. But it’s dirty, and not yours, and you supposed if you washed it…

Bugger. This is what he wanted you to think, isn’t it? He’s trying to get in your head. Well, you’re just going to have to tough it out like a real man and wait until Jade bursts through those doors to save you. Until then, you’ve got lots of time on your hands.

You sit on that bed for all of five minutes before that basement becomes your bitch.  

You dig through every cabinet. Empty. All of them. You search through the shelves, which are bare, except for bottles of laundry detergent and dryer sheets. You look under your bed, you stand on your tiptoes to see the top shelves and on top of the doorways, you lift the blanket acting as a rug by the stares and you throw it back on your bed for later use. After half an hour of searching, you come to the realization there’s nothing in this room but you, your bed, the laundry machine, Dirk’s chair, and that godforsaken laundry.

You stalk back to your shitty excuse for a bed, and you flop down onto it. You stare at the laundry with disdain, and then you close your eyes. You’ll just wait until he comes back. Hell if he’s mad at you. You can take whatever Strider dishes out.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS SHIT 
> 
> hey im back after like 2 months im sorry yadda yadda i'll try and upload more lmao 
> 
>  
> 
> [here's my tumblr!!! please come and fucking bully the hell outta me](http://egbertmcmuffin.tumblr.com/)

****BE JADE === >** **

Jade is currently tied up being tied up. Quite literally. Also quite metaphorically. 

Next best thing?

 

**BE ROSE === > **

“I’m sorry it’s been rather quiet around the manor this morning, hm?” you say, smiling a little at Jane as to not offset. She smiles back, all nerves, as you lead her into the sitting room.

“Oh, dear, I wouldn’t complain! I have been getting good sleep. Um, have you seen Roxy?” she asks, obviously anxious. You guess you should’ve known. Her body tells you she’s not very sociable to strangers, or perhaps you spook her. Her shoulders are hunched over and her socked feet dig into the carpet. You angle your head as you look her over.

You’re prone to analysis. It’s not often, though, that you get people outside of your family to inspect. Obviously, if Jane’s uncomfortableness around you is to speak for anything at all, you’re not exactly being generously subtle. Jane stands, uneasy on her feet. She shifts her weight from side to side like she’s a swaying ship and her smile fluctuates rapidly. She looks like a forced, contented version of John before he blew chunks.

“She’s with Dave,” you tell her after a hot moment to keep it short and simple, “Would you like some tea?”

“Well, I--,” she stops herself, rubs her arm, and swallows nervously, “well, um, I couldn’t say no--,”

“Marvelous,” you interrupt her smoothly, placing a hand on her shoulder to calm her nerves. Maybe your hands are threatening, too, though, because Jane doesn’t seem all that comforted by your touch. You’re not really offended by it. People have been much, much more upfront with their distaste for your shenanigans in the past. The only one of your that gets offended by the people passing through _hating_ you is Dave, and Roxy when she’s not caught up in her lovey-dovey headspace. But mostly Dave, as is such for most immature faults.

“Come along, dear,” you tell her as your hand slips from her shoulder and you lead her into the kitchen. She’s got a stall in her step, but you don’t care to comment on this, instead, you only lead her into your dining room and swiftly hide the teeny bottle of Dirk’s due from the bar in your sleeve before she can notice. You’ve already picked up that Jane’s more observant than the rest of the bunch. Jade might take more action, but Jane’s eyes sweep around the room like she’s picking for traps. Unlike the boys, who act like all the other men in your life so it hardly comes as surprise your only real challengers are female.

You cup the pill bottle in your hand and sweep your arm to signal to Jane for her to take a seat. “What kind of tea do you drink?” you ask her as you step into the kitchen, sliding the bottle to the far end of the counter so it’s hidden away by some dishes.

“Oh, I don’t mind.”

“Then I hope you’re fine with oolong,” you tell her, playfully enough to try and get her to trust you. It’s harder with Jane. You’re your own good cop and bad cop. Of course, it was easy to intimidate Jake and to get John and Jade to think you’re more compassionate than what you’re caring standards reach, but Jane is unfairly wise and hardly naive like the rest of her little posse. For as much as she perplexes you, you know you have to be gentle or else you’ll see Roxy break down again.

“That’s alright,” Jane trills, her anxiety still bleedingly apparent. You hum in response

You consider, for a hot second, slipping one of Dirk’s disgusting little pills into her tea. Which could work, in theory, but you consider yourself to be a lot classier than Dirk. Your style normally isn’t rags to the face and pills in the drink. You prefer to do things of your own wit. But Dirk gets what he wants, and you’d rather touch Jade before he shoots her brains out, so you’ll listen to his dumbass. He’s never been your favorite sibling, and with your family, the blood runs rather watery.

You touch the little bottle tucked deep inside the pocket of your cardigan, and for a second you wonder if this is any classier. You shake your head, popping the top off the kettle and filling it with water. There’s not a lot of sense behind what you all do. It’s a mash of different styles and different timing topped off with luck. You’ve never had anyone get away, though you’ve had a few close calls in the past.You flip off the faucet and set it on the stove, turning it up to the highest setting for it to heat the fastest.

The flames lick at the bottom of the steel kettle and you lean against the counter to wait. Jane is humming London Bridge in the dining room and you nod your head along to it. After a moment, you push up from the counter to try and find a pair of matching teacups to use. You dig through the things shoved in your cupboards, making the mission harder than intended.

You make tea for nearly everyone, all the time. Most times people who need to calm down, more often than not siblings, but other times the guests who need a bit of a pep. You’re not typically the most charitable member of your family. Your work is usually reserved for buttoning up tarps and dragging the bags to your neighbor’s house, setting them up in their shed with a little tin of Roxy’s cookies. Your family decided long ago you worked best for your visitors far, far away from them. You’re scary. You’re not scary like Dirk, who pretends to not be scary, you’re just off-putting and weird and would send any rational person running for the hills.

You think that your family is good at what they do, be it a very naughty thing to be good at. You find two little china teacups and set them on cracking saucers by the sink, turning the kettle by its handle as you fish around in the silverware drawer for a teaspoon. “My fair lady,” you sing-song under your breath as you do, tapping your too-long nails on the granite.

It’s scariest, you figure, that people are so willing to trust you. It’s scariest that people think southern hospitality is nothing more than that. You suppose it’s best you’re on the bad side of things, it’s obviously better than the other end of the stick. That side is undoubtedly shorter.

You can’t see Jane over the bar separating the kitchen from the dining room since she’s so short, and you don’t pay it though. You tip your head back and look at the ceiling. You don’t know if Roxy will be willing to kill this girl, either. Dave plays into the same fantasies she has that anyone who runs through here could possibly like him, but he’s irritable, and he’s got a nasty habit of snapping. Dave is the easiest of all of you to take advantage of, even Roxy knows how to hold her own. Dave would bowl over backward for the first person who pretended to care because God knows he’s always looking for someone like that.

You can hardly fault him for it. You don’t know how to approach your family about it, but you all know that Dirk really messed him up. It’s the biggest reason why you let him act like such a tough guy around you. You feel bad for him.

The kettle starts the squeal, and so you push up from the counter to turn off the stove. You continue to hum what Jane had been under your breath as you pour the steaming water into each of the cups and place the kettle back on the stove. You reach into the little tin by your coffee maker and pull our two little bags of tea, opening them to let them sit in each cup.

You look out the window over the sink and stare at the shed on the corner of your property. You squint at it, and wonder if Dirk had been screwing around in there because the door is open and unlocked. You figure he must’ve needed some other element of fuckery to mess with the guy stuck up in here. He wasn’t really a guy, not anymore, but the lot of you just called him that rather than address the monstrosity he really was. You feared for that little Englishman down in the basement on some level. He was sweet. Sweet didn’t take Dirk’s friends far.

You jiggle the tea bags a little bit, tapping your teaspoon on the corner of the counter as you did. You set it aside, glancing over your shoulder, and started to the dining room. You left sugar cubes on the table since Roxy could not find appeal in tea that hadn’t been sweetened halfway to hell, and you didn’t want to be presumptuous on how Jane took her tea. You turned around the wall and blinked at the empty seat where Jane had sat, the chair pushes in respectfully, the messy placemat straightened and the napkin folded.

You set the tea cups gently on the table and turned around to the entryway. You walked over quickly and locked the slide lock. The rest of them were still locked from the inside, so Jane hadn’t left the house. You turned around and peered into the sitting room, which was also empty. You wonder if she’d tried to find the basement, or gone on a trek for Jade or John, but you hadn’t heard the stairs creak and you’re very observant. You shake your head, dumbfounded, and turned into the hall.

She was there, holding a picture frame daintily and inspecting it. You reached into the sitting room to flick on the hall lights and she startled, glancing up at you. Her face fell, then rose, then settled. She set the frame back on the shelf.

“Your parents aren’t dead, are they?” she asks gently.

“They are,” you tell her, shrugging, “My, déjà vu. I had this conversation with Jake the other day.”

“How ironic,” she murmurs, narrowing her eyes at you behind her cat-eyed glasses. Quickly, she straightens herself, and turns back to the portrait, “Do you miss them?”

“Yes,” you answer and obviously, Jane thinks this must be the wrong answer, because her gaze snaps back onto you and she takes a few practiced steps towards you, linking her hands behind her back.

“Oh?” she asks, accusatory, and you almost step back before you remember this is _your_ ground to stand, “You don’t sound at much of a loss. How’d they die?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you shoot back, and her straight-laced look gets harder. You clear your throat, “An accident. Truly a tragedy.”

“I’m sure you and Jake went over it in full,” she tells you, then glances over her shoulder, “Maybe I should discuss it with him.”

“Oh, he’s with Dirk,” you tell her, your stance easily growing defensive. Jane is not as easy to intimidate as you had expected. Her shoulders are angled and her poise is impeccable, back straight and eyes practically stabbing you. She’s much more than a dainty little girl. You steel yourself. How unlike you to underestimate someone. How wise of _her_ to make you underestimate her. Oh, she’s lovely.

“And I’d love to crash their party,” she smiles, all teeth and no realism to it. You smile back just as fakely.

“I don’t think that’d be worthwhile, dear,” you tell her calmly, taking a step towards her. She doesn’t budge.

“Well, he is my cousin, silly,” she tells you, batting you on the arm, “And I’d like to see him.”

You don’t say anything, and Jane’s smile grows.

“I’d like to see him now,” she adds.

You relax your stance and stare at her, and she stares coolly back. This goes on for a long while before you’re forced to answer, but someone swings into the hall before you can.

“Janey?” Roxy asks, “Hey, Rose, what’s going on here?”

“Nothing,” you tell Roxy quickly, turning on your heel and stepping up to her to take her hands and calm her wandering thoughts before they begin, “Jane just woke up and I offered to bring her some tea.”

“So what are you doin’ in the hall, ding-dong?” she asks you playfully, tugging away from your grip, “Go on back into the kitchen and fix another cuppa for me, would you? I’m gonna go out back with Janey.”

“As you wish,” you tell her, and she grins, brushing your shoulder as she goes to Jane’s side to jabber on and on and on, as is the Roxy usual. You don’t look back at either of them as you make your way back to the kitchen, but you do make a note to yourself in the place of it. Jane is a force to be reckoned with. You’re going to need to amp up the stakes before Roxy can let her hair down around her. And you’ll figure a way to do this as soon as Dirk gets back from across the cotton fields.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> holy shit it's porn can you 
> 
> B E L I E V E T H I S 
> 
> [here's my tumblr!!! please come and talk to me ahahah](http://egbertmcmuffin.tumblr.com/)

**BE JOHN === > **

“If you try anything else,” you threaten, voice strung high with nerves, “I’m g-gonna shove my foot s-so,  _ so  _ far up yours--,” 

You’re not very intimidating, though god do you ever try, and Dave is laughing at you as you try to yank back from him. He’s amused by this, playing with you like you’re a pet. He gets a sick kick of enjoyment out of all of this, you know. He’d been gone for hours when he’d left that morning, and you’d never been more excited to be alone in silence for hours at a time. When he came back, however, you tell it was late at night. Or, well, it had to be if he’d showed up in morning. And you assumed he had. 

He’d had food for you. Leftover pot roast that you hadn’t wanted to eat, and you figured you wouldn’t want to eat it if it was the last meal on earth. You didn’t owe this asshole anything. Your family was dead and he seemed to think your ferocity in trying to get him to leave you alone was  _ cute  _ if the way he cooed over you was anything to go by. Your food is cold, set aside, and you don’t think you’re gonna eat it if he tries to shove it down your throat. The only thing you’re paying attention to is Dave. 

He keeps messing with your hair, dragging his hands down your sides and scrubbing them over your face. And he keeps calling you  _ girly  _ things, beautiful and pretty and perfect. You’re not into guys. You’re most certainly not into Dave. And this is really stretching the limits of your confidence in your fucking masculinity. He’s not letting you wear your glasses anymore, and when you asked him why that was, he said it was because you were prettier without them. 

You jerk back from his prodding again. You’re tired. You know he’s gonna try to get you to sleep with him again, that’s almost inevitable, but that doesn’t mean you can’t make every second you’re not being preoccupied with something else absolute hell for him. 

“Don’t touch me,” you order him, trying to sound surer of yourself than you are, but Dave is acting like you’re flirting back with him, and his grip on you tightens on your sides which makes you flinch. 

“Don’t be a bitch,” he tells you in response, “Let me be nice to you.” 

“Let the fuck go of me,” you hiss at him, wiggling your hips to try and throw him off, but he instead takes it as a means to pull you closer to him, practically into his lap. He buries his face in your hair and you square up your shoulders as he slips his arms around you like he’s trying to get you to cuddle him again. You jerk around to yank your hands up between the two of you and, the two of them bound together, force them up under his jaw to effectively, albeit somewhat weakly, deliver a blow to the underside of his chin.

This doesn’t seem to derail him much. He hisses and shoves the side of your face away from his so you fall backward out of his lap. You don’t get to scoot back much, though, before he’s tugging you back into his lap, hands tightening on your arms threateningly. 

“Let me be nice to you,” he hisses at you, grip on your arms tightening to an extent that has you shaking nearly as much as his hands are, “Let me be nice to you, okay? Be a good boy for me.” 

“Fuck you,” you spit at him, jerking your chin to the side. He just moves up one of his hands to fist it in your hair, holding your head in place, and kissing along your jawline. You struggle to get him to stop fucking touching you, repeating rude lines over and over and fidgeting all around, but it doesn’t deter him. If anything, it makes him hold you tighter and pull you closer, as he noses the side of your face.

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbles against your skin, his nose pressed against your cheek and his eyes closed. You try to take advantage of his contented state, but he’s got one tight grip on your arm and a hand keeping your head in place. He’s a farmboy, and he’s fucking strong, and it’s making you angry as hell. “God, you’re so, so pretty. You’re so good.” 

Your breathing is uneven. You hate this sweet talk. You want to beat his ass into the concrete, but you’re horribly disadvantaged. “Bullshit,” you tell him, and jerk your shoulder again, “Let go of me, you fucking psychopath.” 

“Baby… I’m not crazy, John, I really ain’t,” he assures you in a hushed tone, like you’re a child, “I just really like you, baby, you’re so good and you smell so nice an’ I just…” he takes a deep breath, and blows it out against your neck, “I wanna keep you with me forever.” 

You bite your cheek. He’s deranged. That’s the only possible explanation you can come up with because he’s hurt you, he’s made you cry, he’s fucking torn you up in ways that you never thought anyone would do to you and you don’t know how to respond to this bullshit. You’re scared of him, sure, but at some level you know he’s all you’re gonna have for a long time. Your family is dead, his family’s insane, too, and you’re bound and locked up like a dog. You could make it easier on yourself and pretend like you care about him, but you’re not sure how much of your pride you’re willing to swallow. 

“I mean it,” he reassures you, again, “I mean it, babydoll, you feel so good in my arms. You make me feel happy.”

“Well, it’s not very intentional,” you tell him, harshly. You feel bad for him but you’re not pulling any stops for his crazy ass. He pretends not to hear you, tugging your head to the side so he can plant little kisses at the corners of your lips, even as you try to pull away from him. You haven’t got a very good hand in the control of things, though, and he presses his lips to yours even as you try to yank and tug away from him. He kisses you very slowly, no malice behind it. It’s a little hard to try and bring Dave down to a single motive. He’d...  _ hurt  _ you, yeah, but now he was holding you like you two were in love. It didn’t feel right. He felt like a different person now.

He presses his forehead to yours even as you cant your head backward. “I love you,” he tells you, gently, and you can tell that he thinks he means it. Oh, he’s sick. 

“You don’t love shit,” you tell him, and his grip tightens dangerously again. You flinch and try not to regret talking back to him. 

“But I do. An’ I’m sorry you don’t think so, you just…” he pauses a moment, choosing words very carefully, “You have to know your place.” 

“I don’t have a place below you!” he lets you yank back this time and stare at him. “Do you think I have to be fucking trained?” 

His hand strokes through your hair and you resist the urge to swat it away. Just him touching you felt gross. Every second he was around you felt like an hour. He made your heart pick up in ways it shouldn’t, and whenever you raised your voice to him you were almost expecting him to… to… 

“Y’gotta know simple shit, still, baby,” he tells you flatly, “Alright? S’all. I wanted to show you and you wouldn’t… listen to me otherwise. I knew you wouldn’t. No one else does.” 

“Because you’re fucking  _ insane!”  _ you shout at him. 

He strokes his hand across your face, pushing hair out of your eyes. “Don’t yell at me,” he tells you, “I’m doing what’s best for you.” 

“Don’t fucking touch me, how’s that?” you bat his hand away, face drawn into a scowl, “You’re a real creep.” 

He balls his hand into a fist. “I’m trying to be nice to you.” 

“Oh, I’m real sure you are, jackass,” you tell him, “You’re just… You’re just trying to-- to  _ fuck  _ me. You don’t care about me.” 

He furrows his brow. “That’s-- I still love you. I want you to know that I do, ‘cause that’s how it--,” 

“You don’t love me!” you scream at him, “Are you stupid? I’d rather be  _ dead  _ than have to spend another second dealing with your ‘I love you’ bullcrap.” 

He reaches out to you again and you jerk back, pushing back on the concrete and trying your steel your face, locking your jaw and trying to look intimidating. Dave isn’t receiving all your yelling well, and it’s bleedingly apparent because his face goes through a mixed bag of emotions in the seconds that he stares at you until he finally decides on one, which is apparently to be mad as hell. 

He narrows his eyes at you, and it’s all you have not to flinch away. You set your shoulders and pretend to be ready to stick up for yourself. Your stomach twists in on itself because that’s the same look he’d given you earlier, the same look you’d gotten from him before. You want to say something to him, an apology almost forces its way out of your mouth, but you bite down on your tongue. He speaks before you can reconsider.

“Move,” he says and pushes you off his lap. You knock your tailbone on the concrete and fold in on yourself a little. Dave’s still watching you, “Here, you’re gonna do me a favor.” 

“No,” you say instinctively, trying to move back. He’s holding on the rope that ties your hands together, though, and you can’t go anywhere. You shake your head, trying to find some way to bargain out of this but you’ve gone and fucked up damn well already.  “Oh, no way in hell, asshole.” 

Dave isn’t listening to you, though. With his free hand, he’s already unbuttoning his working jeans and undoing his fly. You feel like such a baby for already being scared and feeling powerless, and maybe that’s why he keeps calling you his baby. You don’t want him to touch you. “If you just try and put your hands on me-- I won’t-- You’re--,”

“Shut up,” he tells you, “You’re the one who decided to go off and be a fucking…” 

He doesn’t finish his sentence. It leaves you more anxious than it would’ve if he’d done so. Your breathing picks up even more as he switches hands to fist one in your hair, trapping you closer to him, and tugging you down. He holds you at an angle that makes it quite clear what he wants you to do, but you still shut your eyes tight and pretend like he isn’t there. It’s very hard to do when he’s jerkily adjusting himself and pulling at your scalp.  

He uses his thumb to pull down your bottom lip, and then his hand leaves your face entirely. There’s a snap of elastic that nearly sends you into a babyish episode, tears probably weren’t far from coming if you were gonna have the same shitty, cowardly reaction you dissolved into yesterday. Something presses at your lips, and it makes you grit your teeth like you’re about to be punched in the face. 

“C’mon, baby, be good for me,” he whispers, and you breathe in deep breaths through your nose. You’d rather die. You want to die. God, you hate this. “John. Open up.”

He sighs and holds your face, squeezing either side of your jaw until your resolve breaks and your mouth opens the tiniest bit. He pushes the head of his cock into your mouth, going slower than you would’ve expected him to even though you gag nearly instantly. It’s so, so much worse than you could’ve anticipated being on the opposite end of getting head. It wasn’t like you were a sex god, but you’d had a girlfriend or two since you started high school. It tastes bad, it feels gross, and his hand in your hair isn’t letting you pull away.

He groans and forces your head down a little more. He’s not going to bruise the back of your throat, he’s being nice right now, but you know that he’s not taking baby steps with you either. He calls you something particularly demeaning, pushing up into your mouth. It gets tears to prick at the corners of your eyes, and you want to fall over. You breathe in deep through your nose and work up some balls. 

“There’s a good boy,” he mumbles, low under his breath, beginning to set into a pace that isn’t slow and steady that isn’t proper for a first blowjob. It starts to hurt much worse, and you feel like you’re going to projectile vomit on his dick. You try to relax a little, hoping it will hurt a little less, and the second he tries to set into some slow pace of shallowly moving, you do what you’ve always feared a girl doing to you, and you bite. 

He jerks your head up instantly and you take a deep breath. He doesn’t exactly shout, but his expletive isn’t quiet and he almost tosses you backward, your head smacking none-too-gently against the wall with how hard he flings you. You pull yourself easily enough though. Your missing glasses are a hindrance but not enough to stop you. You shuffle back and try to get as far from Dave as possible, gripping onto the table to try and pull yourself up on shaky legs.

Dave stands, too, and he’s obviously not taking you as a very serious threat. Your hands scrub over the table for some kind of defense, and you grab a shot glass from a tack fake metal tray, throwing it at Dave and continuing to slowly back up. You know you’re leading yourself to a corner, but you’re not thinking very long-term. Dave isn’t taking very much of your bullshit, though, and when you grab the tray itself to launch at him, he charges up on you to grab your wrist and twist it until you drop it to the floor. His hands find a new home around your throat and your knees seem to give out on you.

“You think that shit’s funny, baby?” he asks you and you choke on words. His grip tightens until you’re gasping and shaking until he drops you back to the concrete, and you cough at his feet. You try to pull yourself back together, hands finding a place to grip on the table, but he doesn’t seem like he wants you to go anywhere. He kicks you in the stomach, hard, and you cry and keel over on the ground. You curl in on yourself, and your face is wet with tears even though you don’t know when you started crying. 

You can hardly bring yourself to try and get to your knees, which is probably exactly what Dave wants. He takes in your shuddering form and hardly offers you a second before he grabs you up by the hair again, pulling down his boxers and yanking your head back so you’re forced to look up at him. 

“If you bite again,” he threatens softly, “I’m going to knock your fucking teeth out. Don’t think I won’t. I promised earlier I would.”

He takes his cock in his hand and tugs you up, still shaking with sobs, and with much less grace than before shoves his cock down your throat and watches you spasm. Your throat hurts like it never has before, in stupidly inexplicable ways. He feels too big and you feel like you’re gonna suffocate and die. You gag and slobber around his dick as he bobs your head up and down. Spit is dribbling from your lips as he fucks your mouth and your throat burns. You feel like you can hardly breathe, even through your nose, and your whole body aches. Your mouth is too full and a gross mix of pre and spit leaks to the floor as he commandeers you easily. You’re entirely lax and pliable. You’re not a force to reckon with anymore, you hardly want to move.

“Fuck...” he mutters under his breath, his hips jerking up. His motions slow for only a second before they’re even worse, choppy and quick. You squeeze your eyes shut tight and let him do the work, hope that this will be over soon and he’ll finally just fucking  _ leave.  _

“You’re  _ so  _ fucking disrespectful to me,” he groans, holding your head down for a little too long and leaving you to feel like you’re suffocating, “But you feel so good, an’ look so pretty when you’re crying and taking my fucking…  _ fuck--,”  _

He thrusts up into your mouth and holds your head still and, god, you’ve never even had a girl swallow for you before so you can’t imagine that it’s favorable. He cums down your throat and holds your head down the entire time as you choke. When he pulls out, you cough it all up as a mixture of cum and saliva drips from your chin. You’re keeling over and your head hurts like nothing else, your throat aches like you’ve eaten a bowl full of nails.

Dave lets out a long sigh and tucks himself back into his jeans. He towers over you as you continue to hack up your lungs and cry. You’re having a fucking breakdown on the ground in front of him and he says nothing, nothing about how much loves you. You gasp for breath and your arms shake where you hold yourself up with them.  He knocks your head to the side with his foot and then tsks. 

“Clean it up,” he tells you, bringing his work boot down on the top of your head so that your face is inches from the concrete. 

“What?” you blubber to the ground, still shuddering with sobs. 

“You made the mess, clean it the fuck up.” 

“I-I,” you stammer, “I c-could get a rag or something, I-I--,” 

His foot is back on the ground and he steps to the side of you before kneeling again, tugging you up and whispering in your ear. “I want you to lick everything off the ground until it looks better than before, and then I want you to sit here and think about what happens when you don’t listen.” 

He shoves your head back down and you take a deep breath. You’re officially swallowing the rest of your pride. Your tongue touches the concrete and, just as instructed, you lick up the cold cum from the ground. You can feel him watching you, and you’re shaking. You feel the increasing need to vomit, but you don’t give yourself that relief because god knows if he’d make you lick that up, too.

You sit up after a couple quiet, degrading moments, and wipe your lower lip. You look up at Dave and then look down. You’re supposed to reflect on how horrible you’ve been, but you don’t you could ever do anything so horrible as to deserve this as a punishment. You’ve already cried yourself out, and you hardly feel like you can form any more tears. You just tremble and sit and try to fold in on yourself and disappear forever. Dave just stands to the side and doesn’t move, watching you like you should be saying something to him.

After a couple more moments standing over you, he sits back on the ground and pats the floor in front of him. You shuffle over, half-heartedly, more just looking not be beaten again. You settle in front of him, eyes trained on the grounds, and he strokes your hair.

“I’m sorry,” he tells you, “I think we went too far.” 

You don’t respond, you just tremble. You wipe your bottoms lip with the back of your hand and wait for him to say something. He reaches to grab your hands, and it’s all you have to not flinch away, and very slowly, undoes the binds that tie them together. You can’t bring yourself to stop shaking, not even when he tosses the ropes to the side and pulls you back into his lap. When he does this, though, you break down crying again even though you thought you’d never be able to again, and he holds onto you and lets you cry onto his shoulder. You feel gross and weak and disgusting, and you’re letting the man who made you feel like this comfort you. You hate yourself for it, and yet, you don’t have the heart to move away. 

“I love you,” he says, and you fist your hands in his shirt and let him say it. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aye guys its ya boy! back at it again! 
> 
> also if yall have a second itd be chill if you could[ drop a fic request on my tumblr?](http://egbertmcmuffin.tumblr.com/ask) i need to get back into the writing groove and ill basically write anything homestuck-related, porn or not, nearly any ship. pls.

**=== > BE JANE. **

Your name is Jane Crocker and you’re finally starting to get more than a little bit fishy about this place. As a wannabe gumshoe, you’ve got more than just a tad bit of experience in reading people than most people expect of you. Even stone-faced Rose Lalonde was easier to read when you got her comfortable, made her feel vulnerable, and you have a feeling she knows you know something’s up. 

When Roxy dragged you away, your thoughts were still on Jake. And then Jade. And then John. And then you’re thinking the worst of the worst, it’s not like guys haven’t taken advantage of Jake before and Jade seemed to like Rose so much and John has been gone since last night and…

You take a long sip of pink lemonade and scrub your socked toes along the planks of the back patio, listening to wind chimes ring through static and sweating even in the shade. It’s safe to say Texan heat still hasn’t appealed to you. You looked over to Roxy, trying to change the channels of a little portable radio so the two of you can listen to something besides the ringing in your ears. She manages to flick onto a classical station, and she flops back in her cushioned deck chair with a huff of a sigh. She grabs her cool glass of lemonade and presses it to her forehead to cool herself down. 

“Jeez,” she mumbles, shaking her head, “I’m real sorry if Rosey gave you a spook, Jane. I told ‘er to knock it off with being a weirdo, but that girl won’t quit no matter what I say.”

“It’s okay!” you assure her, even though you’re still thoroughly worried about your family. Maybe, just maybe, Roxy would be willing to talk about it. After all, she seemed the least deranged. “I was just… worried about my brother. And cousins.” 

She takes a sip of her lemonade as soon as you mention them, wiping her mouth with the back of her land and sinking back in her chair. “Well…” she says, testily, “Uh, they’re probably doin’ just fine. Just figures they’d wanna make friends. Lucky y’all.”

“Yeah, lucky us,” you mumble, casting your eyes aside.

Lucky is one way to put it. Things aren’t making sense to you, on so many levels. You haven’t seen John or Dave since last night. Where on earth could they be? Together? Hardly anything is a coincidence when you’re investigating. So what was Dave doing with your brother, if it was even malicious at all? If he was with him at all? You earnestly push away thoughts of John being in serious trouble. There’s no way in hell. He’s surely strong enough to fend for himself. Maybe he’s just hurt, but nothing like what might be happening to… 

Jake. You’ve stressed yourself about Jake getting himself… Well, getting himself into some awful sticky, tricky situations before. But the idea that he could’ve actually been hurt or worse plagues you. You always thought Jade could look out for herself, even if she was rather naive, but now you’re just worried to be worried and you’re going to kill yourself with concern. Roxy’s talking about something else now, but you’re not paying attention. 

You stare out into the cotton fields that sprout up just beyond the backyard. Their backyard is weirdly barren of much except an unattached garage with the door half-open and a single hardly-leafed tree that a worn tire swing hung off of. Then, beyond the cotton fields, their neighbors. You perk up a little, noticing beyond swabs of cotton that there’s movement over there, a truck turning the corner around their house and driving to a little brick building on the edge of their property. 

“Janey?” asks you over the low-quality hum of the radio, and follows your eyes to the neighbors. She tenses, and answers your unspoken question, “Those are just the neighbors.”

“What’s that thing?” You ask, squinting one eye to point over at the little building. 

“Ain’t nothing much,” she says nonchalant-like, “That’s their slaughterhouse. Their father was a butcher.”

Butcher? You furrowed your brows, scanning over what you could see of their property. You didn’t see any stables, any cows in the pasture… Roxy goes on, and you startle back to attention. 

“Back when we were all kids, our families used to be real close. Dirk and their little boy would go out and shoot squirrels in this little forest we gotta couple miles out, they’d take Papa’s old truck. Me and their little girl…” Roxy trails off, then shakes her head, “Well, we had a fallin’ out a while ago and now we’re just acquaintances.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell her, trying to sound sympathetic, and she waves it off. “You said you still talk to them?” you ask, glancing over at Roxy, “If you really have such little company out here, maybe you should try and fix things with her. Or, well, all of them.”“

“You think?” she asks, almost as if considering this, before backpedaling, “Well, I don’t really know…” 

“Never say never!” you cut her off swiftly, “Have you seen them since then?” 

You know you’re being a little nosy, a little paranoid, but you figure that if you can get next door, maybe talk to the family about your suspicions, get a phone… You don’t know where your family is, but in any case, this place is _no bueno_ and you willing to take risks when it comes to some of the most important people to you. 

“Well… Sometimes, Dirk still goes to see ‘em on business and things, we do a lotta trading a’ goods with them. Dirk and the older one, uh, kinda have some things in common, I think.” 

You hum. “But you haven’t spoken to the sister?” 

“Couple a months ago when I went to… to… ask for a cuppa sugar or something like that, I spoke with ‘er, but she ain’t much for dialogue anymore. Much rather stay inside in her frilly dresses an’ cook, does the indoor cleaning, ladylike stuff. Her family’s real traditional,” Roxy taps the side of her glass, “I almost feel bad, you know?”

“That doesn’t sound  _ so _ horrible,” you oblige with a little shrug, “She still lives at home, does she? With her family? And she’s your age?” 

“Yeah, there’s only the two livin’ there now,” she tells you, “They’re doing alright on their own, I suppose.” 

“The siblings?” you asked her.

“Yep,” she said, nodding. 

You blink at her, curiously. “What happened to the parents?” 

“Oh, shit, yeah,” she said as if she’d just remembered, “Their parents died, don’t mention it ‘cause I’m so use’ to it. There was a big accident down in their slaughterhouse,  killed the both of ‘em.”

“That sounds horrible,” you say almost instinctively, without much thought or emotion behind it, and Roxy just shrugs and stares out at the slaughterhouse, the truck parked outside. 

“Yeah, they didn’t take it too easy,” she says, sounding for the life of her like a semi-nervous wreck. You glance over at her, rubbing the sweat from her forehead, and you furrow your brow. She’s perspiring more than her glass of lemonade in the heat. She continues to ramble. “Haven’t the faintest why. I hated her family. Her mama was a real bitter old woman and her daddy was a mean man. I guess we’re all better off blessed them two are gone now, they were worse than my mama and papa, I think. And you should’a seen how Dirk was actin’ after our parents were gone, I ain’t got no clue why they weren’t rejoicing, too.” 

“You celebrated when your parents died?” you ask her, a little taken aback, and she just takes a drink of her lemonade, trying to dissolve into her deck chair. A nervous little laugh bubbles from her throat, which she clears, and then stumbles on.    


“Well, uh, Dirky did. He never really liked his papa, you know, neither of the boys did. Made ‘em do a whole lotta fighting and screamed at them both a bunch. Dave was too little to do much but cry, but Dirk…” she shrugged, “Can you blame him? Papa beat that kid silly his whole life, I reckon his being gone was a breath of fresh air.” 

You nod, taking a small drink as if closing the conversation. Roxy visibly relaxes because of it. You suppose living in the middle of nowhere, working on a farm for hours a day, isn’t the best on a person’s health. But you couldn’t help but feel like they hadn’t just… died like that. It hardly made sense to you, and now this other layer of coincidence? Coincidences didn’t exist in the crime world. You narrowed your eyes at the house in the distance.

“We should pay them a visit,” you say, stirring around the straw in your glass. Roxy looks over at you, wide-eyed.

“What?” she asks, “We should?”

“I mean, it’d make sense, right?” you ask her, crossing your knees anxiously. You can already envision the scene in your mind, pulling the sister to the side and begging to use her phone, finding your cousins and John, getting the hell out of here. You’re still ridiculously off-put, now even more, that many deaths don't occur  _ naturally  _ to that many people that similar who just so happen to live in the middle of nowhere. “You can apologize, I’ll be there to break things up if they get worse. Right?”

Roxy seems to consider this for a long moment. 

“Uh. I have a visit due there soon. Well, um, DIrk does but he’s… busy. But they don’t much like strangers,” she says, nervously. You smile at her, and it relaxes her a little. 

“Hey, stranger to them, not stranger to you,” you tell her, tipping your glass in her direction, the melting ice clinking against the side, “What’s the worst that could happen, huh?”


	17. Intermission 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey friends! new chapter-- sadly, no porn, but we'll get there. maaaybe. intermissions come when I feel like I need to break up the story, so. here ya go.

**INTERMISSION I**

**=== > BE THE DISGRUNTLED POLICE CHIEF. **

You’ve got a coffee stain on your nicest shirt and bags under your eyes that make you look like you haven’t slept in decades. Your hair was gelled this morning, but you’ve run your hands through it enough to mess it up and have it sticking up every which way in your signature style. Your computer blinks reminders of all the paperwork you have to write up before next week, but all you want to do is sleep.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you’re seriously considering going back to college for a degree in a job that doesn’t make you want to put a bullet through your brain.

You live in a small, half-deserted Texan town that’s mainly populated by white trash and illegal immigrants, of which your family is the latter. You’ve lived here your whole life, except for when you went to college in Dallas as a kid six years ago.

Ever since graduating, going to the police academy, and coming back home to work for your police force, you’ve done nothing but regret the decision. Your life has been corrupted by a string of bad luck, though, so it’s not unusual that it hasn’t gotten much better. You’d been involved in so many accidents and just-barely survivals that it makes you wonder what the fuck God’s plan for you is at all. 

Your hometown is nice and comfortable, but your men don’t do anything real useful and you ain’t got much to do on a good day, anyway. There’s nothing urgent going on, no daily rush of adrenaline by chasing a crook or curb stomping a criminal. None of that, only people who think the cops are always here to help ‘em do the most menial bullshit-- getting kids off their lawn, finding their missing tykes who are really just hiding in the backyard, teenage shoplifters being stupid. Your force is as much of a joke as it can possibly be, except for… 

Your PA knocks twice on your door, and you startle, not even having a second to call out a strangled “come in” before she enters anyway. Tiny little white girl, Nepeta Leijon, who’s been fetching coffee and taking calls for as long as you can remember. She’s sweet when she ain’t annoying, and when she ain’t annoying she’s profound. 

“Mister Vantas?” Nepeta says, “How’s work?” 

“It’s, uh, pretty alrighty,” you clear your throat. “Yes, Missy?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Missy? Please. Are you free? I just received a very… sudden surprise. Oh, your father left a voicemail for you, by the way.”

“What’d he say?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t know. I don’t listen to your voicemails.” 

You give her a long look, and she sighs. “Fine. He said that he wants to meet you for dinner tonight and that you should drop in for church tomorrow morning. He’s worried about you, Vantas Senior is, I can tell!

“Nepeta--,” you start, but she goes on. 

“He’s a real caring father, Mr. Vantas, I can tell he cares a lot about you--,”

“Nepeta,” you say, testy,  but she doesn’t shut up. 

“And that’s so nice to have! You should really make a priority of family, Mr. Vantas, because they won’t be around--,” 

_ “Nepeta,” _ you hiss and she stops herself, mouth agape, slowly going pink in the cheeks. 

“I-- oh. I’m sorry,” she apologizes curtly, “I just… Karkat-- Mr. Vantas-- I really think you’re going to kill yourself on this case, and, uh…” she pauses, “I don’t know. Maybe it’d be best to stop looking into it.”

“Stop looking into it?” you echo, “It’s the only worthwhile case that’s ever been dropped on my desk, Nepeta.” 

“Maybe you should just… let it go cold? Hand it off? Maybe there’s no case at all! They could just all be gone from coincidences--,” 

“That many coincidences don’t just happen, Miss Leijon. There’s something up.” 

You’ve staked your life on this claim. This case was the bane of your existence. 

Since 2006 when you became chief officially, you’ve had a buncha journalists come way down south to thrust a microphone to your lips and beg you to give your take on the fifteen missing persons in the past six years. The case has made national news a couple of times, gotten internet theorists up in a tizzy, and put your quiet little town on the maps as the hunting ground of an infamous murderer. That you haven’t caught, and it’s doubted if you ever will. The FBI refuses to look into things because of how little evidence has ever been presented, but you’re too stubborn to give up. 

She sighs, deeply, “I don’t know, sir, I just think… This is all a little silly, now. You know I love you, but hell, I think you might be going crazy.” 

You scowl as she twirls her finger around her temple. Your head snaps to the side, eyes cast down. “What are you trying to say?” 

“I think I’ve been real upfront,” she says, confused, then just blinks it out of her features, “Oh, Mr. Vantas, don’t be such a drama queen! You’re chief for a reason, aren’t you?” 

“Because I’m the only active cop who ain’t corrupt, lazy to fuck, or old as hell?” 

“Sure, yeah,” she brushes that off easily, “But you’re the best at what you do. And sometimes, you have to take a defeat in stride,” she clears her throat, “Besides, you’ve got someone waiting for you in the front.”    
  
She leans back out the doorway, beats her palm against the frame, and after a second she turns back to you, opens her mouth, but is abruptly cut off by a woman hardly any taller than her pushing through the doorway and stomping up to your desk. She sizes you up and you set your shoulders.    
“Nepeta, who’s this?” you ask. The woman grins. 

“A sudden surprise,” she tells you. 

“She’s a visitor,” Nepeta tells you, smiling nervously. You give her a long, semi-angry look. 

“You can’t just storm in my office like this, all due respect, ma’am--,” 

“I think I can,” she tells you, clipping over your words, “I’m a part of the SAPD. I’m here to siege operation of your ongoing murder case on behalf of my department.” 

You blink. You open your mouth, close it, glance over at a fidgety Nepeta, and then back at the woman.  “Pardon.” 

She straightens up, face smug, “We’re taking over the case, sir.” 

You stand up from your desk abruptly. The words bubble from your lips before you can stop yourself, even though it’s unprofessional and rude, “No way in hell.” 

She raises an eyebrow, looking up at you. Nepeta cringes, and you feel like cringing at yourself, too. The woman appears very superior, though unconventionally. You’re five-ten, short-ish for a man, but you suppose it’s a downside of being south of the border. You’re stocky and square-jawed, she’s lithe and angled. She’s much shorter than you even in her pointy-toed heels, which tap infuriatingly on the floorboards. She’s got fire engine red hair and bright blue eyes behind red-framed cat-eyed glasses. A grin livens her face as yours contorts into anger and disbelief, going completely red like you do when you’re nervous or embarrassed or distraught. 

You’ve been on the case since you were a rookie. It’s by far one of the hardest cases you’ve ever tried to crack, which honestly isn’t hard to achieve, but regardless. Most of them are tourists trying to drive into Mexico, or kids from your town. You knew a lot of them, and a couple especially well. You and your force have investigated nearly twelve towns from hundreds of miles away and further to try and find the murderer. The kicker is that the bodies never turn up. The homes of the victims never show signs of being broken into, and from all logical points of view, the victims willingly walked right into their death. It fucking pisses you off to no end, the single case that could make you famous as a crime fighter is damn near impossible to crack. 

That’s not the only motive you have, though. You’ve got more personal reasons to get involved on this case, too, and you’re not letting it get away from you. 

“I’ve been on this case for three years--,” you start, pointing a finger at her. Nepeta takes a couple of steps back, to stand outside the office, and quietly closes the door.

“And you’ve made little progress,” she finishes for you, angling her head, “Don’t make this any harder than it is.”

“Make it easy? For you to usurp a case this fucking important to me?” 

“Yep. Thanks for understanding,” she says, her grin widening. 

“Does your department have the authority to take the case from me? Do you have a superior I could speak to? Certainly, since this is a private township--,”

“Sir,” she says, “Not nearly private enough. New evidence surfacing has given us more than enough reason to believe this case is worthy of further investigation by a more capable team.”

“More capable?” you say, incredulously. 

“Your police force has thirty active-duty cops,” she tells you, crossing her arms, “Ours has triple that. More, even. Do you really want to pit against us, sir? It seems like you care more about the case than the victims.” 

“Oh, fuckin’--,” you stop yourself and take a deep breath, “Ma’am. I don’t think it’s in your department’s best interest to tackle this case. You’d be wasting time and money.” 

“And you’re not?” 

“I don’t have to solve murder cases, daily, ma’am,” you tell her, “Our town has five thousand people. Yours has triple that,” your eyes narrow, “More, even.”

She straightens up, obviously not expecting you to stand up to her. “An interesting take. Surely you don’t have… personal connections to this case?”

“Surely you aren’t trying to psychoanalyze me.”

“I sure am not.”

“You sure you ain’t?” 

“I am positive I  _ ain’t,”  _ she mocks, with a smirk. You just scowl at her. 

The two of you fall silent. She just holds eye contact, and the two of you drop conversation in favor of a particularly intense staring contest, which you tear your gaze away from first. 

“I’m Officer Pyrope,” she tells you after a moment, “Texas’ finest detective.” 

“Renowned asshole, too?” you clip. 

“Watch it, Mr. Vantas,” she tells you, though you can tell she’s amused, “You wouldn’t want the big guys upstate to hear about how disrespectful you are.” 

You grunt, falling back into your desk chair, and fisting your hand back in your hair with nerves. Officer Pyrope adjusts her stance to stand more comfortably, and you feel her eyes on you. “Would you mind talking to me about the progress you’ve made on this case in the past, oh, say three years?” 

You look up from your desk and she flashes you another too-big smile. “Little to nothing,” you mutter, sitting up in your desk, “No bodies, no DNA evidence, no evidence of break-ins or previous interaction with a potential killer. Nothing connects the victims who didn’t disappear together. You’re wasting your time, detective.”

“Maybe so,” she says, then tilts her head, “Spree killer?”

“A very clean, devoted spree-killer, who lured his victims in despite never having contact with them.” 

“You’ve been through personal articles,” she says, slowly, like she’s considering her options.  

“Nothing suspicious regarding any victims.” 

Her brow furrows. “Any witness reports of their leaving?” 

“Only people saying when they left. Nobody knows where they go off to after getting out of town, it’s backroads for at least a hundred miles before there’s even a gas station. But I’m sure you know that, since you drove out here.” 

“That I did,” she says, then she stuffs her hands into her pockets, “So you have no evidence? How do you know these people were even taken by the same person at all?”

“They all disappear the same way, without a trace, and going out or into town. The first victims were mostly immigrants,” you tell her, carefully leaving out their illegal status, “They go southwest out of town, never turn up again.” 

“What’s out there?” she asks. 

“Just abandoned properties and scorched land. Ain’t nobody living out there, that whole stretch of land may as well be abandoned.” 

“And you’ve looked through it all?”

“That’s hundreds of acres of land in either direction,” you tell her, “Not even your department could search through all of that. ‘Sides, it’s flat land, nobody’s storing bodies in flat land.”

“Buried corpses, maybe.” 

You shrug, “Then where are their cars? Their luggage? They didn’t walk out there butt-ass-naked, waitin’ to be killed. Was all that buried too?”

“Can we track license plates?”

“Tried and tried. Ain’t never found one of the missing cars, they might as well’ve disappeared. Nothing but skid marks.” 

“...You said there were properties out there? Houses?”

“Just a couple of old plantation homes. They’re all abandoned. Some private company bought all those properties a long while ago and they’re strictly off-limits, we ain’t allowed to go on them ‘less we got probable cause to believe there’s bodies stored in ‘em, and we don’t got that.” 

“Are they gonna demolish them?” she asked, “Why the hell would they just keep up big, ugly houses?” 

“Dunno,” you say, “They bought those houses back in ‘64 and still ain’t done nothing with ‘em.” 

“Can we look into it anymore?”

You shake your head. “Those are private, too. Buyers don’t wanna be disclosed. Believe me, I’ve tried, and ain’t nobody I talked to would even try cracking that shit open for me. Seems like those are some big, important folks. Not even the alternative sources I turned to could find anything damning..” 

She gives you a long looK, lips pursed in consideration. “That doesn’t sound legal.” 

You swallow. “Some of the stuff I’ve done for this case…” 

“You must be very dedicated,” she says, and you swear she’s authentically impressed. Her voice is softer, less bitchy, and her posture looks less rigid. 

“Yeah, sure,” you say, “This case means a lot to me.” 

“How come?” she asks, raising an eyebrow, “It’s not like you’ve gotten kidnapped.” 

“Well, no, duh,” you say with a snort, “It’s just… personal,” you say slowly, “I want to solve it for myself.”

She gives you a long, gentle-ish look-- or as gentle as a woman of so many angles and edges could seem-- and her hand slips off her hip. “I see,” she says, and she looks as if she’s about to continue but her words stop short there and the two of you stare at each other, much less intensely.   

You’ve been wanting to solve this case for all your life, since you joined the force. Nothing has ever, ever kept you so strung up, no amount of misdemeanor offenses or ranting at irresponsible teenagers could ever keep your mind off it. Officer Pyrope draws back, adjusting the lapels of her blazer. She clears her throat and forces herself to size back up.

“That’s all the more reason for me to take it over,” she says, and you tense up. Momentarily taken aback, soon your disbelief turns into anger and you curse at yourself for being an idiot and telling her all this information. But then that anger is nothing but disappointment in yourself, which is more like sadness to you. She dusts off the sides off her jacket, spinning on her heels to stalk out of your office, “I’ll talk to you later, Mr. Vantas. Ring me if you need to talk.” 

“I don’t have your--,” 

She glances over her shoulder in the door, and to your surprise, gives you a very obvious wink. “I am  _ sure _ you’ll find it, Karkles.” 

“K-Kar- What?…” your voice drops low, and you furrow your brows in confusion. 

She doesn’t bother to close your office door, but you can hear the front door to the station slam shut after a good minute or so. You fall back in your desk chair. Your head falls into your hands. You’re gonna lose this case, no way can you compete against San Antonio’s force. Chances are they drop it, too, and it goes cold-- but solving this case is the most important thing to you. You glance over at your phone, wondering if you should give your father a call back, but then again you couldn’t stand to be around your family after losing this case. God, you sound like a petulant child. It’s your own damn fault you can’t move on without solving this. Not Officer Pyrope’s, not the SAPD, and not… 

Nepeta shuffles in from the hall, looking as dumbstruck as you, and clears her throat to capture your attention. 

And certainly, not Nepeta, but the red in your face only gets brighter when you see her. 

You stare at her, lost at first, and then your previous anger at yourself turns into anger at anything else,  _ anyone else,  _ and you round on Nepeta. It’s dumb, you know, but you’re so  _ peeved  _ and the anger management classes you used to take never really were able to help you. 

“And you just let that woman into our station?” you ask, incredulously, face scrunched up in your irrational fury. Nepeta opens her mouth, but you don’t close yours, “You’re fuckin’-- How did you let her-- Is this what you meant by  _ moving on?”  _

“Mr. Vantas--,” she tries to start, but you groan and scrub your hand over your face. Your face is scruffy with stubble you haven’t bothered to shave in a while. 

“N-Not now, Nepeta,” you mutter, pushing the meat of your palm into your forehead, “Just… Not now.”

“It’s important,” she assures you, almost meekly. You know she’s well aware of your anger issues, but she’s not exactly insensitive to it. She walks forward, cautious, like you’re going to jump out at her and slips a little piece of paper onto your desk. You glare at her, still slouched in your chair, reaching out to grab the little piece of paper. 

YOU H4V3 4 N1C3 TOWN, SH3R1FF. 1 C4N T3LL YOUR D3VOT1ON TO TH1S C4S3 1S SOM3TH1NG NO SUP3R DUP3R 4NGSTY POL1C3M4N C4N B3 W1THOUT… 1 4M W1LL1NG TO 4PP34L TO MY D3P4RTM3NT 4ND CONV1NC3 TH3M TH3 C4S3 1S 4 COLD TR41L.

TH4T 1S, 1F YOU’R3 W1LL1NG TO G1V3 M3 4 B3D 4ND M34NS TO SOLV3 TH1S C4S3 W1TH YOU.

“D-Did you tell her I’m not a sheriff?” you babble, because you feel like you’re going into shock. It must be evident because Nepeta coughs into her fist to get your attention, obviously trying not to giggle at your shaken expression.  

“Officer Pyrope says she’d like to, um… cooperate on the case.” 

“Cooperate?” you parrot, more in disbelief than anything. You turn the note over and read the messy scribble on the lower right-hand corner. 

LOV3LY TO M33T YOUR 4CQU41NT4NC3, S1R. M4YB3 W3 SHOULD G3T DR1NKS 4FT3R W3 SOLV3 OURS3LV3S 4 MURD3R. [:

You blink, reading it several times over, and then staring back up at Nepeta, who shrugs. 

“This thing is going to kill you one way or another. I suspect you’ll get over it sooner if you solve it rather than waiting to forget it. So… I might’ve helped a little bit,” she tries to sound nonchalant, but a little smile betrays her.

“What do you mean?” you ask her. 

“I told her about Kankri,” she admits, and you stiffen, "She was down to co-op after that. You two are in a pretty similar boat with this, case, you know."

“Nepeta-- why on earth would you--,” you start, starting to feel like Officer Pyrope holds nothing for pity but you-- and, god, pity dates are the worst. “I’ll look pathetic to her.” 

She just rolls her eyes at you. “Didn’t you recognize her name, Mr. Vantas? You think you would after being on this case for so long. If you’re pathetic, so is she.” 

“I-- just. Don’t tell her anymore about my brother, alright?” you ask her, and she nods, smile ever-growing, “Whatever you do just… Don’t make me sound like some tortured loser, alright? Can you call into the motel near Village Inn? Make room reservations in my name. And-- and have you got Officer Pyrope’s number? Can you set a meeting with her for tomorrow?” 

She’s wearing a cat’s grin now, ear to ear, and she just nods. “Of course, Mr. Vantas. I hope for your sake that you finally solve this damn thing and get some rest,” she pauses, “Actually, get some rest now. You better sleep tonight!”

You wave her off as she bounds out of your office, door shut behind her. You read over the paper a couple more times, feeling confused but… relieved. If Officer Pyrope really was looking to cooperate on this case, you were looking to put up with her. At least until you can successfully prove this isn’t a case gone cold. Just as you lean back in your chair, the phone begins to ring. You startle, and pick up the ancient landline on your desk, choking out a ‘hello.’ 

It takes you only a couple of seconds to realize the ringing is coming from your cell phone, which you’re quick to flip open and answer as you let the landline clatter to your desk. 

_ “Hey, Vantas.”  _

You roll your eyes. “What do you want, Vriska?” 

_ “Listen, man, I’m just calling in a favor from the G-F, and the fag living in our attic,”  _ she says,  _ “Your shitty little town is on the maps to Galveston, right?”  _

“Yeah,” you say, shrugging, “What’s Kanaya wanna know for?” 

_ “Have you seen a family of buck-toothed Jews, by any chance? Kan and Tavros’ college friend is visiting, Jake something-something, and bringing his family over, too. It’s been, like, four days since they were supposed to get here and Kan’s real worried.”  _

You sigh. “No, Vriska, why don’t you guys try and call the motel in--,” you stop yourself, eyes going from lidded to wide in terror, “W-Wait, you said they’re traveling south through here?”

_ “To Galveston, yeah. And, man, don’t you think I tried calling everywhere? I hate talking to you.”  _

“N-No, Vriska,” you start, spluttering unintelligently.

_ “You care that much that I hate you?”  _ she asks, surprised.

“No, no, god. It’s about the… Jew posse,” you tell her,  stumbling on your choice of words for a second.    
She chortles.  _ “That’s pretty good. The… The Jew Crew.”  _

She cackles at her own joke while you’re about to go out of your mind, “Can you tell Kanaya to call me? It’s about them.”  

_ “You can find them?”  _

“No, it’s… Just put on her for me right now, please? I’ve gotta tell her about this. I think-- I think your friends might be in serious trouble.” 


End file.
